


In the days after...

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I believe that our best chance of success is to introduce someone familiar to them. Someone who has been away and has lost everything during that time – his family, his farm. A man such as this might be believed to possess the character of a bandit, regardless of who he might have been in the past. Are you that man d'Artagnan?” Spoilers for ep. 10, regular updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The past few days had been exhausting, both due to a lack of sleep and the stress that events had brought with them. When they initially formulated their plan against the Cardinal it seemed fairly straightforward, and while Athos was still unhappy about the need to shoot d’Artagnan, he had eventually accepted the necessity of the act. d’Artagnan had been shocked when he awoke at Milady’s residence with a bandage around his ribs instead of his arm. Clearly something had gone wrong and the young man’s mind turned immediately to his mentor, knowing that the man would be fraught with worry about the placement of his shot. Fortunately the wound didn’t seem too serious, a fact that was confirmed by Milady’s appearance when she explained that the ball had glanced off a rib. As hoped, Milady had wasted no time in her campaign against the Musketeers, doing her best to convince d’Artagnan of his folly in following them. The Captain’s appearance at her rooms only helped to solidify the young man’s position and he soon found himself agreeing to kill Athos, finally ridding the lady of her treacherous husband.

 

He recalled the meeting that followed in Treville’s office. Porthos looked at him with open joy, relishing the fact that he hadn’t been grievously injured. Aramis smiled somewhat more sedately, but with no less enthusiasm, as his hands twitched, itching to pull aside d’Artagnan’s doublet and shirt so he could examine the wound. Athos’ face was a mix of guilt and consternation at the direction their plan was taking, clearly hopeful that his protégé could soon remove himself from Milady’s company and return to the safety of his brothers at the garrison. Unsurprisingly, Athos had responded with calm to d’Artagnan’s statement that he needed to kill him in front of Milady’s eyes, and Porthos jumped in to suggest the means to make the act realistic, before setting out to collect the required supplies.

 

Athos’ shooting, unlike d’Artagnan’s, was completed without incident and the young man soon found himself in front of the Cardinal, enacting the next step in their plan. d’Artagnan’s heart had leapt with satisfaction and pride when the Cardinal realized he’d been tricked, culminating with the words spoken by their Queen, ensuring the Cardinal’s power would be significantly curtailed in the future. Their elation was short lived, however, when Milady informed the four Musketeers of Constance’s capture and, before long, they found themselves in a brutal battle with Sarazin’s men.

 

d’Artagnan and his brothers battled fiercely, soon turning the tide in their favour, until only Milady remained, standing with Constance at the far end of the street with a pistol at the young woman’s throat. When the Gascon saw the situation his love was in, he had to lock his knees and force a calm mask that was the absolute opposite of how he was feeling. His relief at Athos’ successful intervention had him reeling as he and Constance held each other and watched as Athos first attempted to end his wife’s life and then ultimately sent her away with a plea to never return. In that moment, d’Artagnan was assured by Constance that they would finally have the future together that they both dearly desired, only to have both of their dreams shattered upon hearing of Bonacieux’s stupidity in attempting to end his life and his declaration to Constance that he would be successful in the future, should she decide to leave him. The young man had nodded numbly at Constance that he understood and, of course, he would not ask her to leave under these circumstances; walking away, he wondered how many sorrows one heart could manage before irreparably breaking.

 

He had spent that evening in the company of his three friends, sharing comfort and wine beside the warmth of a roaring fire. Few words were spoken that night, but the solidarity between brothers could be felt in the occasional supportive glances or touches that the four men shared. When their stomachs were filled with wine and their thoughts dulled, the four men made their way to Aramis’ lodgings and slept an exhausted sleep, only presenting themselves at the garrison after the mid-day meal. Given the successful completion of their mission, it was reasonable to assume that Captain Treville would allow them some leniency regarding their arrival time.

 

Treville was, indeed, accommodating and simply regarded the four with an appraising eye before confirming, “You are well?” His glance encompassed the four men as they responded with nods, and his gaze paused on d’Artagnan before continuing. “Good. The King has received a complaint from an influential member of Court and he needs your presence to confirm whether or not there’s a concern with rebels on the roads around Rouen. If a problem exists, I will leave it in your hands to sort appropriately.”

 

“At our own time?” Porthos queried.

 

The Captain nodded his acknowledgement. “The trip itself should take three or four days each way, in addition to the time required to deal with the situation. Two weeks?” the Captain raised a questioning eyebrow and Athos nodded his agreement, knowing that whatever timeframe was agreed upon would be the amount of time before aid would be sent, should the Musketeers not return. “Excellent. There’s still a good amount of daylight remaining so you may as well get ready and start out.”

 

As the four turned to exit the Captain’s office, Treville interrupted, “d’Artagnan, not you.” The young man looked at him surprised. “You were hurt during this mission and I have it on good authority that you’ll push yourself before you’re fit.” Aramis looked down at this comment, knowing that he was often the Captain’s source of information regarding the men’s health. “You’ll stay at the garrison on light duties until your wound is fully healed.” Athos looked ready to protest the Captain’s orders but Treville held up a hand to stop him. “This is not negotiable. Dismissed.”

 

The four Musketeers traded a quick glance, then followed Athos out the door, having agreed that the Captain would not be moved from his decision. Following his friends down the stairs to the garrison courtyard, d’Artagnan sighed heavily, already dreading the two weeks of boredom and loneliness ahead of him. As if sensing his melancholy, Athos turned to him at the bottom of the stairs and grasped his forearm, looking directly into the younger man’s eyes as he spoke. “It would not be my choice either, especially given the…. _difficulty_ of the past few days. Regardless, the Captain cares deeply for our wellbeing and would not have made this choice lightly.” d’Artagnan looked at the ground, no happier with Athos’ words than with those of his Captain. “d’Artagnan,” Athos raised the younger man’s chin with his hand, forcing eye contact once again, “consider this time a gift. It will allow you to rest and then to train and hone your skills. Perhaps you’ll improve enough to best Porthos or Aramis upon our return.”

 

A grin crossed the young man’s face. “And what if I best you?”

 

A smile tugged at Athos’ lips as his comments had the desired effect on his protégé. “We’ll only be away for a fortnight – not nearly enough time for you to acquire the expertise needed to best me.”

 

Porthos snorted and clapped d’Artagnan on the back while Aramis chuckled and the four made their way to their rooms to prepare for their mission, d’Artagnan following along so he could say his good-byes.

 

* * *

 

 

d’Artagnan found himself sitting at the table the four men usually shared, contemplating a bowl of cold stew, stirring it aimlessly with the spoon in his hand. His brothers had left hours before and d’Artagnan was astonished at the depth of his feelings of loss at their absence. This was not the first time they had been apart, but it was the first time that he was dealing with Constance’s loss without the others by his side. Looking down, he finally realized what he was doing and crossly pushed the bowl away from him, slopping a good portion of the offensive meal onto the table. As he was contemplating whether he wanted to go to a tavern or back to his room, the Captain appeared outside of his office.

 

“d’Artagnan,” he called, waiting for the young man’s attention, “please come up to my office.” With that he returned to his office, taking his seat as he waited for the Musketeer to arrive.

 

“Are you well, d’Artagnan?” the Captain asked, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Yes, Captain, I am fine.” d’Artagnan replied uncertainly.

 

The Captain was quiet and the young man did everything in his power to remain still as the silence between them stretched. Just when he thought he could stand the quiet no further, the Captain spoke.

 

“You are familiar with Castillon-Debats?” the Captain questioned.

 

d’Artagnan was surprised at the question, but answered readily, “Of course, they neighbor Lupiac.”

 

“And, you know people there?” the Captain prompted.

 

“Yes, we were friendly and, as farmers, we were always ready to lend a hand to one another.” d’Artagnan pinned the Captain with a serious gaze. “Captain, why do you wish to know about Castillon-Debats?”

 

The older man pulled a deep breath, took a moment to exhale slowly and then began his explanation. “We have received credible information that a band of thieves from Castillon-Debats has been in control of roads between Bordeaux and Paris. While bandits of this sort are not uncommon, this band is.” Treville leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of him. After taking a minute to compose his thoughts, he continued. “This group has had unusual success, seemingly knowing exactly when a carriage is to be expected and stopping only those who have the means to ransom their lives. I had sent Duvall and Beaumont along the road as common men with orders to identify and infiltrate the group so they might be stopped.” The Captain paused and took another deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily before reopening them and looking directly at d’Artagnan. “Their bodies were returned to the garrison two days ago, with a warning that future meddling would garner a similar response.”

 

d’Artagnan gasped quietly at the news of his fellow Musketeers and then directed a questioning look at his Captain. “How have I not heard the news of Duvall and Beaumont’s demise?”

 

The Captain nodded at d’Artagnan’s quick grasp of the situation. “They were brought by wagon in the dead of night, with explicit instructions that the _cargo_ ,” Treville forced the word out in disgust, “was to be delivered to me personally. When I discovered the bodies of our two brothers, I had them removed to the morgue in secrecy. Sadly, they will be buried tomorrow without ceremony until we can bring the men to blame to justice.”

d’Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, sensing the other man’s exhaustion and pain at his actions. “That’s why you wanted to know about Castillon-Debats,” he stated, quietly. “You want to try again, but this time with someone who might be known to these men.”

 

“Yes. They have proven to be incredibly wary of strangers and I believe that our best chance of success is to introduce someone familiar to them. Someone who has been away and has lost everything during that time – his family, his farm. A man such as this might be believed to possess the character of a bandit, regardless of who he might have been in the past.” Pausing to allow his words to sink in, the Captain watched d’Artagnan’s reaction carefully. “Are you such a man, d’Artagnan?”

 

The Gascon bit his lip in thought, then nodded. “Yes, I am that man.”

 

Treville seemed to sag in relief at the self-assurance in d’Artagnan’s answer. “I was hoping you might be.” In that instant, Treville drew himself up, regaining the confidence that seemed to have escaped him earlier. “The last information I received showed the group moving steadily north and it’s possible they may have travelled as far as Orleans. Unfortunately, we have no other information about the men involved so you’ll need to keep your eyes open, rely on your instincts and approach the right people. We cannot risk the group learning about your commission or having any direct contact with anyone at the garrison. When you have identified the members of the band, send word to the barkeeper at the Three Crowns; I’ll ensure that it becomes one of the men’s favored places to drink while you’re away. When we receive word from you, we’ll arm and travel to your location at which time we can put an end to this group’s terror.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded his understanding and walked towards the door, before stopping and turning back toward his Captain. “This is why you sent the others away, isn’t it?”

 

Treville nodded. No further words were necessary as both men knew that his brothers would have argued vehemently against d’Artagnan’s involvement in such a dangerous mission. The Gascon turned back to the door and made haste down the stairs, already contemplating what supplies and other personal items he could safely bring with him.


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos swatted at yet another insect that was buzzing annoyingly around his face. All three men were hot in the unseasonably warm weather and, on horseback, there was no shade to be found. While the men normally shared stories and joked to pass the many hours spent on their mounts, today they were all focused on returning to Paris as quickly as possible. They all keenly felt the absence of their brother and knew that these feelings would be intensified for d’Artagnan since the three of them at least had each other’s company. Even though Captain Treville had been generous with the time given for their mission, the Musketeers had done everything in their power to return as quickly as possible.

 

They had all hoped that their arrival in Rouen would prove the Noble’s complaint unwarranted, but instead they found people cautious of strangers and living in fear. It seemed that the bandits had decided to practically hold the town and its citizen’s hostage, freely partaking of food, wine and other necessities without offering any form of payment. Those who challenged them were found brutally beaten or, in several circumstances, lost their lives altogether as a warning to others who might fight against them. Fortunately, while brutal, the bandits were not particularly smart and made no attempt to hide who they were as they blatantly bullied the townspeople for whatever they desired. As such, the Musketeers had only to wait in the local tavern until dark when two of the outlaws appeared, demanding food and drink, and forcing themselves upon the hapless barmaid. The Musketeers observed the other men’s actions for several minutes until the barmaid cried out, falling to the floor under the force of a blow that had been leveled at her by one of the men. The three friends had risen as one to go to the girl’s aid, and Porthos and Athos easily dispatched the two men while Aramis checked on the barmaid.

 

After confirming that the girl would suffer no permanent ill effects, and providing her with several coins from Athos’ purse, Aramis and Porthos hauled the alive, but unconscious attacker to the back of the tavern; his friend had not been as fortunate having met the end of Porthos’ dagger.

 

Upon awakening, the bandit found himself slumped against a wall, trussed up hand and foot, and staring into the faces of three angry Musketeers. Little persuasion was required for the man to provide all of the details about his fellows, including the name of the group’s leader and their location; unsurprisingly, no one at the tavern came to the man’s aid while he was being questioned. After gagging and once again knocking the man unconscious, the Musketeers elicited a promise from the barkeeper to take care of the man, as well as the body of his dead friend, so that the Musketeers could focus their efforts on the remaining outlaws.

 

It turned out that the bandits had taken over a nearby manor house and, if the amount of noise coming from its walls was any indication, they were well on their way to consuming all of the wine in its cellar. Deciding that it would be easier to catch the men unaware and hung over in the morning, the Musketeers resorted to camping outside for the night, keeping the horses hidden in a small grove of trees and forgoing a fire so their location wasn’t compromised.

 

When dawn arrived, they had armed themselves and ridden unchallenged into the courtyard of the once splendid house. Among the still passed out men the Musketeers had no difficulty capturing the group’s leader, whose only protest was to empty his stomach onto his own boots after being hauled to his feet by Porthos.

 

Porthos had grimaced at the sight and smell, as he gingerly moved a step away from the now soiled bandit, while still maintaining a hold on the back of the man’s dirty shirt. The remaining bandits, once roused from their stupor, had given up without a fight, and as the last of the men was having their hands bound in the courtyard, a large group of townspeople began to arrive. It seemed they wanted to exact justice on the outlaws and were prepared to take custody of the men.

 

The Musketeers communicated silently, agreeing that the group of bandits was too large for them to bring back to Paris, but at the same time, justice and not revenge needed to be meted out. As Athos drew breath to make this view known, a man separated from the townspeople and came forward to address the Musketeers.

 

“My name is Jacques Gallois. I represent the formal authority in Rouen, such as it is. You can trust that I will ensure these men are judged and punished fairly.”

 

Athos looked at the man, and then motioned to his fellow Musketeers. “Athos, Porthos and Aramis of the King’s Musketeers, at your service.” He glanced again at his brothers to confirm that they were in agreement that Jacques’ offer seemed sincere. “We would be grateful for your assistance in ensuring that justice is served and give them over to your custody.”

 

At this, Jacques motioned several men forward who began collecting the bandits and helping them onto a wagon that would transport them back to town. “It is we who are grateful to you for ending the terror that these men have brought into our midst. If there is any way that we can repay this service?” Jacques’ left his question hanging, looking at the three men.

 

“Well, I don’t know about these two, but I could do with a good meal before we start back to Paris,” Porthos stated, looking for confirmation from his friends. Aramis nodded while Athos looked like he was about to disagree, before he saw the logic in Porthos’ suggestion.

 

“A meal and some provisions for the road would be welcome,” the older man agreed.

 

The townspeople had provided a veritable feast for their rescuers and filled their saddlebags with wine, cheese and bread before bidding them a safe journey. Athos was relieved to finally be on their way home, feeling ill at ease for some reason, but unable to identify what exactly was bothering him.

 

“He’ll be fine, you know.” Aramis stated. Athos started, realizing that he’d been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed that Aramis had moved his horse to walk beside him.

 

Athos huffed, “That boy could find trouble in a nunnery.”

 

Porthos rode up, flanking Athos on his other side. “A nunnery, eh. Sounds like my kind of trouble,” he stated lasciviously, a broad grin on his face.

 

Athos merely rolled his eyes and the three rode in silence for several minutes until Athos was ready to break it. “I admit to a certain fondness for the boy and was disquieted by the Captain’s orders to leave him behind,” at that, Porthos grunted, but Athos pointedly ignored him.

 

“Athos,” Aramis reached over, placing a hand on the older man’s thigh, “none of us were ready to be apart from each other after the events involving the Cardinal and your wife.” He fell quiet, unsure of how to continue.

 

“It’s a soldier’s life – King and country and following orders no matter what.” Porthos filled in.

 

“d’Artagnan is aware that we would not willingly leave him behind and, while he can frustrate even those with the patience of a saint, the boy has wits and will be better for the rest he’s been allowed,” Aramis finished.

 

Knowing that what his friends was saying was true, he nonetheless was unable to quell his feelings of anxiety at being away from the garrison. “Then let us make our best possible speed back to Paris so that can see what trouble d’Artagnan has managed to find for himself.”

 

* * *

 

d’Artagnan turned his head to the side, spitting out blood from the gash inside his mouth. Andre’s backhand had not been unexpected, but at the same time, the Gascon wished he had been better prepared to move away from the blow. As Andre stood hulking over him, his broad chest blocking out the sun, d’Artagnan pondered his next move. If he fought too well, the other man might become suspicious and his mission would fail. If he didn’t fight well enough, Andre might believe him too weak to join their group of outlaws, resulting again in failure. d’Artagnan didn’t like either of his options as he pushed himself off the ground where he had sprawled on his backside after being struck. Regaining his feet, he swiped a hand across his lips, removing the last traces of blood still covering them. He stood warily, watching his opponent, waiting for the man’s next attack. d’Artagnan didn’t have long to wait as the two men circled each other. With a quick feint to his left, Andre swiftly moved his weight back to the right, bringing his left arm across with a vicious roundhouse punch. The Gascon had anticipated the move and waited until the last possible moment to move out of the way, stumbling back a step to avoid being hit.

 

d’Artagnan could tell that Andre was becoming frustrated and, as his frustration grew, he became more careless, leaving less time between attacks and sacrificing technique for brute strength. This is the way he had always been, even during those times when, as children, their families had visited or found themselves together at market or at church. d’Artagnan knew he could use the other man’s temper against him and, as Andre was off balance from the force of the missed strike, d’Artagnan lifted his leg in a straight kick at the larger man’s chest. The hit forced the air out of his attacker’s lungs and the Gascon pressed his advantage, knowing that if he didn’t end things quickly now, Andre’s rage would result in serious injury. Striding forward, d’Artagnan aimed a well-placed blow to Andre’s left cheek, a cut splitting across the bone, followed a swipe of his leg that caused the dazed man to drop.

 

d’Artagnan stood panting, looking at the fallen man before him. “Had enough yet?”

 

Andre eyed him suspiciously, considering the question, before giving a short nod to indicate that their fight was over.

 

“Good,” d’Artagnan breathed out, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees as worked to regain his breath. Standing tall, the Gascon watched the man who now sat on the ground, knees bent with an arm resting on each knee. “Was that seriously necessary?”

 

Andre raised a shoulder to shrug, “You never were much of a scrapper.” d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the comment. “Too scrawny to really be a threat to anyone, I’d wager.” Andre continued. “Seems like that’s changed while you were away in Paris. Why’d you come back?”

 

d’Artagnan had considered his answer carefully, knowing that his response would be crucial to his entry into the band of thieves. He shrugged, putting on an air of defiance mixed with desperation. “My father was killed on the road to Paris. I swore to avenge him only to find that the man named as his killer was a Musketeer. They tried him and found him innocent.” d’Artagnan allowed a note of bitterness to color his next words. “Stick together, they do. Apparently justice applies only to us commoners, but not to the King’s guard. They refused to do anything.”

 

Andre nodded in understanding. “Still, your farm has been burned and you have no other family here.”

 

“They caught the man who burned my farm, did you know that?” d’Artagnan asked. The look on Andre’s face indicated that he was unaware of that fact. “They caught him but because he wouldn’t confess his crimes, I didn’t receive any compensation for my loss.” d’Artagnan shrugged, “Paris is expensive and full of unsavory sorts. I did what I had to in order to survive, but I was feeling a little too exposed as of late, so I thought it a good idea to disappear for a while.”

 

“Why Saint-Jean-de-Braye?” Andre questioned the boy’s presence in the small town as he prepared to stand. d’Artagnan stepped forward and offered his hand, Andre grasping his forearm after a moment’s hesitation, and with a quick pull, Andre was returned to his feet.

 

“It just happened to be the route I picked on my way to Lupiac,” d’Artagnan admitted. “I thought I’d be able to earn some coin when I arrived in Orleans, before I continue on to Lupiac.”

 

“And what will you do when you arrive home?” Andre wondered.

 

Another shrug answered him. “Not sure yet. I have skills, as you’ve seen, but the trick is to find someone who values them.”

 

Andre nodded and brushed his hands on his pants. “Come to the tavern tonight. I have some friends you should meet.” Not waiting for a reply he turned and walked away from the Gascon who had to bite the inside of his mouth to contain the grin that threatened to appear.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed to this point.

* * *

Andre’s friends had been some of the hardest men d’Artagnan had the misfortune to meet but he didn’t know any of them from his time in Lupiac or, more importantly, his time in Paris. The group that he was introduced to were wary of him initially, but grudgingly accepted his presence at their table once Andre shared some of the stories from their childhood. The stories themselves didn’t thrill d’Artagnan in the least, especially since they all retold the many ways in which Andre had bullied him, but they served their purpose of establishing his identity and credibility in front of the others.

 

d’Artagnan was invited to join the men for drinks several times over the coming days, invariably expected to pay for the wine once the initial bottle or two had been emptied. At this, d’Artagnan acquiesced the first couple of times, and then begged off on the basis of having no form of income. The desperation in his voice had the desired effect and the Gascon was soon being asked about his views on the King, taxes, and the state of the nobility in France in general. d’Artagnan did his best to portray a man broken not only by loss but also by the lack of opportunities available due to the current state of the country.

 

At the end of that evening Andre had clapped him on the back, more forcefully than was strictly necessary, and told d’Artagnan to meet him at the church the next morning, ready to ride. That night, as he lay in bed, the young man could hardly sleep at the excitement of finally having earned Andre’s trust, bringing him one step closer to completing his mission. He could hardly wait to return to the garrison and see the looks on his brothers’ faces as he recounted the details of his success. At this thought, his smile faded and he wondered again if his friends were back yet and if they were alright. Eight days had passed since he and his brothers had parted ways and he prayed for their safe return as he finally drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

 

It had rained overnight, causing everything to smell fresh and clean. d’Artagnan breathed deeply of the scents that reminded him so much of his beloved farm as he waited for Andre to arrive. He looked up at the sound of an approaching horse and saw Andre riding toward him at a trot. The Gascon mounted his own horse and rode out to meet the other man.

 

“You ready?” Andre asked.

 

“You haven’t really told me where we’re going, so the best I can tell you is that I’m ready to ride,” d’Artagnan answered, noncommittally.

 

“I see your smart mouth hasn’t deserted you during your time away.”

 

d’Artagnan forced himself not to respond to the man’s taunts, stating instead, “If anything, my time away has improved my repertoire.”

 

Andre guffawed at the other man’s comment and then urged his horse to a canter, steering away from the town and in the direction of the nearby woods. d’Artagnan had no option but to kick his heels to his horse’s flanks and follow.

 

They rode in silence for over an hour, weaving between the trees in a pattern that seemed completely random to d’Artagnan, but which the other man seemed confident of. The trees and ground were dappled by sunlight, the leaves and branches allowing only a small amount of light to penetrate. The Gascon felt a shiver along his spine, blaming it on the shade and coolness of the forest, rather than his company. As d’Artagnan was contemplating calling to the other man to ask how much further they would be travelling, he was surprised to find himself being tackled and brought to the ground, breath leaving him in a great gasp of pain as his left side struck the ground before being followed by the rest of his body. For several seconds d’Artagnan focused only on the monumental task of taking a breath, a chore which his body seemed incapable of as he lay on the ground. Finally, the young man was able to draw a breath and concentrated on taking another and yet another before opening his eyes to see two men standing above him.

 

“Well?” a voice asked from somewhere to his right.

 

“He’s awake and he’s stopped gasping like a fish out of water, so I guess we didn’t break him too badly,” one of the men above him replied. d’Artagnan forced himself to roll to his side, stopping abruptly as the pain in his left side spiked, prompting him to roll back in the other direction in an effort to get an arm underneath him.

 

“Stand up already, you’re embarrassing yourself,” said the voice from the right, which d’Artagnan finally recognized as Andre’s. The other two men snickered at the comment and stepped back to allow the Gascon to shakily raise himself to his feet.

 

With one arm wrapped around himself to support his sore side, d’Artagnan rounded on the men with anger. “What’s the meaning of this?”

 

“The men are just… _protective_ of our privacy, that’s all,” Andre explained.

 

“They could have bloody well killed me,” d’Artagnan raged.

 

Andre’s tone turned cold. “You’re fine and now you need to get moving.” d’Artagnan stubbornly held the man’s gaze for a moment before moving towards his horse to mount, but was stopped by one of the other men barring his way.

 

“Now what?” d’Artagnan asked irritably.

 

“You’ll walk from here,” Andre pointed, “it’s not far. Jaubert will bring your horse.”

 

And so it was that the Gascon found himself walking through the forest, with Andre riding ahead of him and the two other men walking behind him, one of whom led his horse. Luckily Andre had been telling the truth when he said they were close and no more than a half hour passed before the trees began to thin and a clearing emerged ahead of them. Andre had pulled his horse over to one side and stopped to watch as d’Artagnan cautiously entered the clearing. The space was not large but contained several tents, a fire pit, a long table with benches on both sides, and an area off to one side which was corralled with rope and held close to a dozen horses.

 

Curbing his dismay at the organized camp in front of him, d’Artagnan infused his voice with curiosity, asking, “What is this place?”

 

“This could be your new home,” Andre stated, “but first a couple of the boys want a word with you.”

 

d’Artagnan noticed that the man’s gaze landed somewhere behind him and before he could turn to look, the men from the forest were upon him, grasping his arms and forcing him to his knees.

 

“Andre,” d’Artagnan started, menacingly.

 

“The men are wary of outsiders and with good reason. We just want to make sure you are who you seem.” At that Andre turned his horse away, heading for the makeshift corral, while the men holding d’Artagnan bound his hands behind his back and dragged him to the centre of the camp, near the fire pit.

 

Understanding that he had no option but to cooperate, the Gascon allowed himself to be pushed down to his knees again and then called out to his childhood friend. “What do you want to know?”

 

“What was your business in Paris?” the man beside him – Jaubert, d’Artagnan recalled - asked.

 

d’Artagnan ignored him, attention focused on Andre who was still on the other side of the clearing, unsaddling his horse. “I asked what _he_ wanted to know, not you.” The comment earned him a slap to the back of the head. The Gascon gritted his teeth as he regained his balance from the blow. “You’re still not Andre,” he pointed out in defiance. His statement was met with another slap.

 

Allowing some of his anger to show, d’Artagnan snapped, “Are you trying to addle my brains? I won’t be able to answer any of your questions if you keep hitting my head.” Apparently the two thugs saw the truth in the young man’s words and the next blow was a boot to his still tender side. As he bent forward with pain, gasping for air, he noticed boots moving toward him, satisfied that his obstinacy had finally prompted Andre to walk over.

 

“Answer the man’s question, d’Artagnan,” Andre said as he stopped to stand in front of the Gascon, a menacing look on his face.

 

“I was seeking justice for my father’s murder,” d’Artagnan spat out.

 

“And after?” Andre crossed his arms as waited for an answer.

 

“I told you. I took odds jobs, selling my strength and my skills so I could scrape by.”

 

“Mmm, yes, that is what you said.” Andre looked thoughtful. “But you also said you had to leave Paris for a while. Why is that?”

 

“Some of my recent _ventures_ were getting me the wrong sort of attention,” the Gascon stated, calmly.

 

“And this attention you speak of – the Musketeers perhaps?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged indifferently, “Perhaps.”

 

“We recently made the acquaintance of some Musketeers, didn’t we?” Andre looked to the two men holding d’Artagnan in place.

 

“Didn’t much care for them, eh, Serge?” Jaubert snickered at the man to d’Artagnan’s left.

 

d’Artagnan heard a corresponding chuckle from Serge as the man nodded in agreement. “What does this have to do with me?” the Gascon asked, exasperated.

 

“How familiar exactly are you with the Musketeers?” Andre questioned.

 

Realization dawned on d’Artagnan’s face as he sputtered a reply, his tone incredulous. “Wait, you think I’m working with the Musketeers?” Andre shrugged neutrally and the Gascon ducked his head before addressing him again. “Let me remind you that a Musketeer killed my father. There’s no love lost between us,” d’Artagnan spat.

 

The young man could tell his words were starting to sway Andre, but he wasn’t convinced yet. “Wasn’t it you who pointed out earlier my lack of fighting ability and, what was it you said, that I was too scrawny to be much of a threat? How could someone like that ever be invited to be part of the King’s guard?”

 

Andre stood silent for so long, considering d’Artagnan’s words that the young man started to wonder if his ploy would be unsuccessful and the Captain would be receiving another delivery shortly. Finally, the larger man nodded to Jaubert and Serge who pulled d’Artagnan to his feet before unwinding the rough rope they had tied around the young man’s wrists. As he brought his arms forward to rub the abraded skin, Jaubert gave him a parting slap on the back, “No hard feelings, eh.” The cold grin on the man’s face belied his words, but d’Artagnan’s relief at having been accepted was too great and he simply nodded as the outlaw walked away.

 

Andre turned, motioning with one hand for d’Artagnan to follow. “I’ll show you around.” The Gascon was left with no choice but to follow as he continued to rub his sore wrists and arms and wondered if he had finally gotten himself into a situation that was too difficult for him to handle. 

* * *

It had taken nine days for the men to complete their mission; ten if you counted the afternoon when they had set out. The three men passed through the gates of the garrison as the sun was setting, all of them tired from their many hours in the saddle and eager to see their young friend. The evening meal had passed and the courtyard was nearly empty, most of the men having either retired to the barracks or more likely headed to a tavern for the evening. As the three friends dismounted and handed the reins of their horses to the stable boy, Athos looked pointedly up at the Captain’s office, indicating his intent to report. Aramis nodded in understanding and clapped Porthos on the back, saying, “Come, let’s see if there’s any food left while Athos speaks with the Captain.”

 

By the time that Athos returned, Aramis and Porthos were sitting at their usual table with wine and food in front of them. The warm evening negated the need to be indoors and several lanterns had been lit to provide light for the two men. Porthos looked up towards the Captain’s office at the sound of a door slamming and watched as Athos stomped down the stairs, his anger evident in every step and the stiffness of his shoulders and back. Porthos’ eyes immediately narrowed at the sight and Aramis, seeing the look on his face, turned to watch Athos descend the stairs and walk towards them.

 

With a pang of fear, Aramis spoke as soon as Athos was within hearing range. “What’s happened? Where’s d’Artagnan?”

 

Athos stopped at their table and took a deep breathe, seemingly in an attempt to calm himself. “He’s,” Athos broke off, “he’s been sent…” again he was unable to continue. Pacing away and then back again, he took another settling breath. “Treville,” he bit out, “has sent him on a mission.”

 

Aramis and Porthos traded a look, uncertain of the reason for Athos’ anger over a simple mission.

 

“What’s got you so riled up about this mission?” Porthos prompted.

 

Glaring at the man, Athos snapped, “He’s been sent to ferret out a group of bandits.” The pacing began again. “On his own and undercover.”

 

Understanding dawned for the other two men as they recalled the events leading up to Vadim’s death and the many hours spent worrying while d’Artagnan ingratiated himself to Vadim at the Chatelet, before escaping with him and eventually ending up tied to barrels of gunpowder.

 

“When is he due back?” Aramis asked.

 

“No idea. The good Captain thought it best to cut all ties with our young friend, lest he be found out by the outlaws. The only course remaining to us is to sit and wait for him to send word, and trust that he has enough wits to keep himself alive.” Athos finally stopped pacing and stood staring into space, the look of deep anguish on his face reflected in the faces of his two friends. Aramis stood and grasped his friend’s arm, guiding him to sit beside him, while Porthos poured a glass of wine and placed it in front of the older man.

 

Athos looked down at the table for several moments before raising his eyes and meeting Porthos’ gaze, and the swarthy man had to stifle the urge to move away from the overwhelming sadness in his brother’s eyes. Reaching across the table, he placed a hand on Athos’ arm, squeezing it gently, while Aramis leaned closer and wrapped his arm around their leader’s shoulders. “Tonight, we drink and rest. Tomorrow, first thing, we go talk to the Captain and get some answers.” Aramis stated.

 

The two men nodded and Athos tossed back his wine, setting his glass on the table to be refilled.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning arrived both too quickly and not quickly enough for the three brothers. None of them had slept any decent amount, unless eventually passing out from wine, and later brandy, counted as rest. After swiftly taking care of their morning ablutions, the Musketeers found themselves standing in front of Captain Treville, one question on all of their minds: why? The Captain, for his part, seemed no better off than the men standing in front of him, with dark circles under his eyes and a generally haggard and unkempt appearance. He drew a deep breath and then exhaled slowly before answering. “You wouldn’t have allowed it.”

 

The three men knew the truth of Treville’s answer, all of them certain that they would have argued vehemently against the Captain’s plan and, at the very least, gone with the boy regardless of the Captain’s wishes.

 

“You ‘ad no right,” Porthos accused.

 

“No, I didn’t but d’Artagnan is too honorable a man to deny me my request,” the Captain conceded.

 

“Why send the boy? There are many among us with far more experience with this sort of thing.” Athos questioned.

 

“It had to be someone known to them…for his protection and the protection of our men.” the Captain began. “Best get some brandy for this conversation. Aramis, would you please?”

 

Aramis gave a slight dip of his head and proceeded to pour 4 glasses of Treville’s best brandy, leaving the bottle out on the Captain’s desk. Treville leaned back in his chair, holding his glass, while the other men positioned themselves around the room, waiting for their leader to gather his thoughts and begin.

 

“I had received word that there were concerns on the roads between Bordeaux and Paris,” the Captain started. “There was a band of thieves from Gascony working in the area, but unlike some we’ve encountered in the past, this group seemed remarkably successful and well-informed.” Athos raised an eyebrow at this, but remained silent. “I had sent two men to investigate and they were returned in the back of a wagon.” Treville took a gulp of the brandy, relishing the warmth the fiery liquid provided.

 

“What do you mean, they were _returned_?” Aramis questioned.

 

“In the back of a wagon, a tarp thrown over them, like so much rubbish. They’d been beaten viciously before their throats were slit.” Treville shuddered as he remembered the images from that night. “There was a warning that any further interference would be met with a similar response.” Treville wiped his hand wearily across his face. “d’Artagnan was the logical choice…”

 

“I fear logic had little to do with this decision,” Athos interjected.

 

Treville gave the man a stern look. “He was the logical choice because they would have rejected any outsiders and d’Artagnan was the only one among us from Gascony.”

 

“So he’s expected to cozy up with them, figure out who’s leading this group, and then what?” Porthos summarized.

 

“I’ve had someone at the Three Crowns awaiting his word since he left. We need to know where they’ve been getting their information and where they’re hiding. Without that, there’s too great a possibility that the capture of only a portion of their number will lead to continued attacks.”

 

“There’s nothing else to be done?” Aramis asked hopefully.

 

The Captain shook his head ruefully. “Once we hear from him, we’ll arm and travel to his location with all possible speed.”

 

“We’ll be staying at the garrison until he contacts us.” Athos stated, draining his glass and slamming it down on the desk before leaving the office. Aramis gave the Captain a small smile of apology, before he and Porthos followed suit, draining their glasses in turn and following the other man out.

 

“Aramis,” the Captain called, “keep an eye on him.”

 

Aramis nodded and moved to catch up to his friends who were already stepping into the courtyard and waiting for him.

 

“Are we really gonna hang around and do nothing?” Porthos asked as soon as Aramis had joined them.

 

Athos looked at the ground for a moment, before meeting the others’ gaze from under his hat. “Perhaps there are ways that we can move this situation along to its natural conclusion.”

 

Porthos grinned at the knowledge that the older man had a plan and Aramis simply led the way to his lodgings, understanding that Athos’ plans were usually far more creative when lubricated by a few bottles of wine.

* * *

d’Artagnan did his best to hide his boredom at having been placed on guard duty, yet again, within the woods leading to their camp. It seemed obvious that the group still didn’t trust him and, yesterday, when the majority of the bandits had ridden out and stayed away the entire night, his attempts at finding out what they were doing were soundly rebutted. When Andre was at the camp the other men, while still not friendly, were at least civil. In his absence, d’Artagnan could look forward to crude comments, _accidental_ shoves from the men as they passed, and being told to either wash the supper dishes or muck out the impromptu corral; neither option thrilled him after a day in the woods.

 

Further down the trail the Gascon could just make out Jaubert’s hat, and he had been paired with either him or Serge since his arrival. Despite attempts to get to know the men, both had remained distant and, at best, barely tolerated his presence. d’Artagnan knew this pointed to the loyalty Andre seemed to command with these men, and he knew that his only source of information would be his childhood friend, since he’d been unable to make headway with anyone else.

 

The young man glanced up, noticing that it seemed to be getting darker, and confirmed that the sun was setting, signalling that his guard duty would soon be ending. As the thought crossed his mind, Jaubert waved at him, indicating that it was time to return. Sighing in relief, d’Artagnan picked up the cumbersome musket he’d been provided, and made his way carefully in the fading light. By the time that he entered the clearing Jaubert had already taken a seat at the long table and was spooning large servings of watery stew into his mouth. d’Artagnan propped his musket against the tent he’d been sharing with two other men, and grabbed a bowl of stew and a chunk of stale bread for himself, before sitting across from Jaubert. The camp was still mostly empty, with the men from the other day’s raiding party still away, and d’Artagnan welcomed the reprieve from the usual comments that were typically cast his way.

 

As he was sopping up the last of the stew with his bread, the sound of hoof beats could be heard, followed shortly by the arrival of Andre and his men. Jaubert and two others hastened over to welcome them, but the Gascon decided to hang back and watch for a bit, using the excuse of his unfinished meal as a reason to stay seated. Andre’s face held a broad grin, and he hoisted a leather bag high above his head and let loose a joyful whoop. The men around him picked up on his cheer and soon the clearing was full of loud and rowdy men. Andre passed the bag down to one of his men and dismounted, handing his horse’s reins to yet another man.

 

He spotted d’Artagnan sitting alone at the table and made his way over, pouring himself a glass of wine before sitting. “d’Artagnan, are you not excited about our success?”

 

d’Artagnan sipped his wine before answering, “It’s difficult to be excited when one feels like an outsider.”

 

Andre nodded, but remained silent. The Gascon sighed before putting down his glass and speaking. “Care to tell me what I should be excited about?”

 

Andre shrugged as he replied, “Our endeavor was successful.”

 

“And what endeavor exactly were you engaged in?”

 

Andre caught Jaubert’s eye and motioned him over. “All was well during our absence?” Jaubert looked at d’Artagnan before replying in the affirmative. “Good.” Jaubert took this to mean he was dismissed and wandered back to talk with the others.

 

“What have you deduced from your time here?” he asked the Gascon.

 

“Clearly, whatever we’re engaged in is illegal.” d’Artagnan nodded toward the group of men unpacking bags. “If the contents of those saddlebags is any indication, you’ve managed to acquire some very valuable items, which begs the question of how. My guess would be that you attacked a party on their way to Paris and _lightened_ their load.”

 

Andre chuckled and raised his glass in a toast to d’Artagnan. “You always were too smart for your own good.” Drinking from the glass, he went on, “When a suitable target presents itself, we meet them on the road and demand a ransom for their release.”

 

“How do you know when that will be?” d’Artagnan prodded.

 

Andre seemed to consider the question for a moment before deciding to answer. “We have someone at Court.”

 

The Gascon’s heart leapt with excitement at the fact that he was finally making progress, but his face betrayed nothing but curiosity. “How did you manage that?”

 

“Ah, some things are better left unsaid.” Andre drained his glass and began to raise himself from the bench.

 

Sensing his window of opportunity closing quickly, the younger man rose as well, asking, “Who? Who is your contact in Paris?”

 

If he was surprised by d’Artagnan’s boldness, the other man didn’t show it as he lifted himself the rest of the way off the bench and walked away without a word. d’Artagnan clenched his fists in frustration and could almost hear Athos’ voice in his ear, advising patience until another opportunity presented itself. 

* * *

The three Musketeers had drunk heavily at Aramis’ lodgings after speaking with their Captain and, although all three suffered the ill effects from the wine they consumed, they were still dressed and in attendance the following morning as the Captain addressed the men in the garrison courtyard. After issuing general orders for training, parade duty, and the delivery of some minor missives, Treville dismissed everyone and called out to the three friends, indicating that they should follow him upstairs.

 

The three men traded a questioning look, but followed without a word. Once the Captain had seated himself, he leaned to place his arms on the desk, clasping his hands together. “The King received some rather disturbing news from the Comte de La Marche who was bringing some very generous gifts for their Majesties. They were attacked on their way to Paris while travelling through Orleans.”

 

Athos’ head snapped up at the Captain’s last words.

 

“The King is naturally very upset that the bandits attacked the Comte and relieved him of the gifts they were bringing,”’ the Captain finished dryly.

 

“Upset enough to have the Musketeers investigate?” Porthos suggested.

 

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Treville confirmed.

 

“How can we be certain that this is the same group of men that d’Artagnan’s after?” Aramis questioned.

 

Treville shook his head, “We can’t, but the reports I’d received showed the men moving north towards Paris, making the possibility of their presence in the Orleans’s area reasonable.” Athos nodded his agreement of the Captain’s logic. “Should this be the same group, I’m certain that I don’t need to remind you that these men are dangerous and have already expressed their extreme dislike of Musketeers. Also, while tempting, I urge you to keep your distance from d’Artagnan since your presence would no doubt be a surprise that could cause him to make a fatal mistake. Am I understood?”

 

“So we’re to travel to Orleans to locate the men involved,” Porthos stated.

 

“Send word once we have secured this information and await reinforcements from the garrison,” Aramis added.

 

“And stay away from d’Artagnan,” Athos finished, then raised an eyebrow, “unless, of course, we find him in danger, in which case we will have no choice but to act.”

 

Treville rolled his eyes at his lieutenant’s interpretation of his orders as the men turned and exited. As he listened to their steps on the stairs, he said a silent prayer to keep all four of them safe in the days to come. 

* * *

The morning had dawned gray and wet, and d’Artagnan realized that it had been a fortnight since he’d received his orders and departed the garrison, leaving all traces of his Musketeer identity behind. He remembered his friends’ words as they were leaving on their mission.

 

_“Don’t worry lad,” Aramis said, clapping him on the back, “we’ll be back within a fortnight, probably sooner if we run out of wine.” Athos looked over from his horse at this last comment, a look of annoyance on his face, but said nothing. Porthos and Aramis laughed loudly at his displeasure before mounting their horses and heading out._

 

Anticipating a long, wet day of guard duty, d’Artagnan donned his leather doublet, secured his weapons belt which held additional powder and balls for his musket, and strode out of the tent. He was surprised to see Andre walking toward him and several men saddling horses in the corral.

 

“Leave that cannon here,” he motioned to d’Artagnan’s musket, “you’ll be riding with us today.”

 

The Gascon hurriedly replaced the musket in his tent and followed Andre to the corral, where he was directed to help the man finish preparing the horses. When they were done, the group mounted and he fell in beside Andre, hoping to get more information about the day’s plans. “You’ve received word from your man at Court,” d’Artagnan guessed.

 

“No.”

 

“Your _woman_ at Court?” the Gascon tried again.

 

The statement earned a chuckle from the outlaw, and another shake of his head. “No, I have not heard from my _man_ at Court. Today we ride for a different reason.” d’Artagnan waited for the man to continue, but it seemed that he had said all he planned to, and the young man resigned himself to his fate of following the group until their plans became clear.

 

As they rode from the forest, the Gascon recognized the road to Saint-Jean-de-Braye, the town just north of Orleans, and realized this must be their destination. “What are we doing in town?” he asked.

 

“You’ll find out soon enough. Now, go back and ride with Serge; your questions grow tiresome.”

 

Knowing he had little choice, d’Artagnan slowed his horse until Serge had caught up with him and then fell into place beside him. Sadly, the man wasn’t any more talkative than Andre had been and d’Artagnan found himself silently wishing for the trip to town to be over quickly. When they arrived, Andre led the group directly to the tavern, having left all of the horses plus three of their men at the road leading into town. At Andre’s nod, two men assumed position outside of the tavern door, while the remaining four plus d’Artagnan followed the bandit leader inside.

 

It was early still and the tavern was nearly empty. It took several seconds for d’Artagnan’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior and once they had, he had to suppress a gasp at the sight of three Musketeers sitting at a table in the corner. Aramis leaned back in a chair with his feet on the table, hat pulled down low over his eyes. Across from him was Porthos, laying cards out onto the table in some sort of order known only to him. Athos sat between the other two, hat on the table in front of him and next to a bottle of wine, holding a half-empty glass in his hand.

 

In a heartbeat Athos recognized that their young friend would be taken off guard by their sudden appearance so, in an effort to give him some time to adjust, he raised his glass to the newcomers and bid them good morning. At Athos’ words, Aramis pushed his hat back and uncovered his eyes, while Porthos collected the cards together and leaned back in his chair, hand resting on his pistol. Andre moved forward, leaving the rest of the group several feet behind, and made to sit down in the empty chair across from Athos. As the outlaw’s hand touched it, Porthos pulled the chair out of his grasp. “We’re kinda particular about who we sit with. You understand,” he said with a smile.

 

Andre took a step back and regarded the three men carefully, gaze finally landing on Athos as the leader of the three. Forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he nodded. “Yes, I _do_ understand. We,” he motioned behind him with one hand, “are also particular about who we sit with. Especially recently; there are bandits in the area, you know.”

 

“Really?” asked Aramis. “And we thought your town quiet and quaint.”

 

Porthos snorted, “Just proves how misleading appearances can be.”

 

Athos, who had so far been contemplating the wine in his glass, looked up at Andre. “As it happens, we have some experience with bandits and would be happy to render assistance…on behalf of the King.” He watched the other man carefully for a reaction to his words.

 

From behind, d’Artagnan watched Andre clench his hands into fists and the young man wondered how his childhood bully would react.

 

“You must be Musketeers if you ride on behalf of the King?” Andre stated, seeking confirmation.

 

Athos inclined his head. “At your service.”

 

“It is a dangerous path, the life of a Musketeer.” Andre responded. “Are you sure that what’s happening in our little part of France is serious enough to warrant your attention?”

 

“We’re sure.” Porthos answered, the steel in his voice leaving no room for doubt.

 

“Very well then, it’s not like we can stop you.” Andre shrugged and turned back to his men.

 

d’Artagnan caught the look that Andre threw one of his men, and before he had time to warn his brothers, a pistol had been discharged. Chaos ensued and the Gascon looked desperately at the corner where his friends had sat, but was unable to discern their status as the three had ducked behind their overturned table for protection. As he watched, Andre’s men advanced on the Musketeers with knives and swords. Drawing his own sword, the Gascon moved forward with them, intending to do what he could to protect his brothers from the back of the group.

 

As soon as the first bandit was within striking distance, Aramis moved from hiding to throw a dagger at the man’s chest; before seeing it land, he had drawn and aimed his pistol at another attacker and felled a second man. Porthos had walked forward to throw a vicious punch at another man’s face and then brought the dazed man’s head to his knee to knock him unconscious. Athos had thrown a quick look in d’Artagnan’s direction, which the young man had correctly interpreted as “don’t do anything stupid” and “stay safe”. Then, the older man pulled his sword and blocked a strike aimed at his shoulder, before ending the man by running his sword through his attacker’s stomach.

 

d’Artagnan did his best to help his friends without being too obvious, tripping one of the bandits with his sword and elbowing another _accidently_ in the face as he moved forward. It seemed like the Musketeers would be victorious when a cry rang out from Aramis and he fell back against the wall where he’d been standing. The Gascon’s head whipped around at the sound and his eyes sought out the source of the man’s pain. There! A growing patch of red stained the right side of his face as he lay senseless on the ground. With bated breath, d’Artagnan struggled to see his friend’s chest move so he could confirm that Aramis was still alive.

 

Athos and Porthos had also startled at Aramis’ cry, and the earlier shots had brought not only the two guards from the tavern door, but the men who had been left guarding the road. The momentary distraction was enough for the additional men to gain the upper hand and d’Artagnan was horrified to find himself standing in front of his wounded and captured brothers. The Musketeers had killed three men and wounded another two, but had paid a heavy price in the process. Aramis still lay where he had fallen, unconscious or dead, with blood pooling around his head. Porthos had been forced to his knees where he leaned heavily on the older Musketeer, his left arm hanging limply below his collarbone, while Athos held a hand to his right arm, trying but failing to stem the flow of blood from his wound.

 

d’Artagnan was startled out of his examination of his friends when Andre ordered his men to find rope to bind the Musketeers’ arms and a wagon so they could be brought along. The dead men were left where they’d died, a grotesque gift for the barkeeper to deal with once they had left, and the remaining men helped the wounded deal with their injuries so they’d be well enough to ride back. The Gascon felt entirely out of his depth at the situation he found himself in and wished again for Athos’ wise council about what to do next. Unfortunately, Athos couldn’t help him right now and neither could his other two friends. d’Artagnan recalled Treville’s words when he described the state of the two fallen Musketeers who had been returned to the garrison and he promised himself that the same fate would not befall his friends, no matter what.


	5. Chapter 5

A wagon had been found and the Musketeers loaded on, Athos struggling with Aramis’ weight awkwardly held over his shoulder as he was forced to carry his wounded brother or face the possibility that the man would be left behind. Now laying prone in the wagon between his two friends, Aramis was deathly pale, the tracks of blood from his wound winding down the side of his face in a surreal pattern that made d’Artagnan cringe. Porthos had a permanent glare on his face at the treatment they’d endured, and at the no-doubt excruciating pain emanating from his damaged shoulder which had been forced into an even more unnatural position when their captors had bound both hands behind his back. Athos had to be in pain as well, and the Gascon could see that most of his lower sleeve had been turned red from his wound, but the Musketeer’s face betrayed no emotion. He sat stoically, offering the odd encouraging look to Porthos when the man’s pain got the better of him due to the jostling of the wagon, but otherwise divided his attention between glances at Aramis and the countryside they were passing through.

 

Doing his best to match his mentor’s calm demeanor, d’Artagnan watched the route they took carefully, having realized early into the trip that they were not returning to the bandits’ camp. He toyed with the idea of asking Andre where they were going, but the need to keep watch over his friends won out over his curiosity and had him staying close behind the wagon instead.

 

d’Artagnan’s head was still reeling from the events that had unfolded. When he had recognized his friends in the tavern, his heart had swung madly between elation to fear over their presence, recalling clearly the Captain’s instructions that he would have no ties with the Musketeers until he sent word back to Paris. After his friends had been captured, d’Artagnan was again torn between feelings of relief at the fact that they were alive – or so he hopefully assumed when looking at Aramis – and regret at not having been able to help them escape unharmed. As Andre had ordered the men out of the tavern, the Gascon’s emotions turned to horror at the callousness of the decision to leave the fallen bandits behind, an action that confirmed to the young man that these outlaws had no honor, denying their fallen comrades the dignity of a proper burial. Men such as these would be doubly dangerous and d’Artagnan experienced another pang of fear at the unknown fate awaiting his brothers.

 

After travelling for over an hour, a building began to take shape in the distance and d’Artagnan was hopeful that this would bring an end to their journey so that he might start to form a plan to release his friends from their captors. The building turned out to be a large barn, weathered and damaged by years of neglect, but still standing nonetheless. Inside, the building was in better condition than its outside appearance suggested, containing a long wall of stalls for the horses, hay that seemed relatively fresh, and a pile of folded blankets and other supplies against one wall. Clearly, finding this place was not a random occurrence and someone had been tending to the building and its supplies regularly.

 

Upon arriving the bandits had herded the Musketeers inside, Athos released from his bonds so he could once again carrying Aramis over the shoulder of his uninjured arm. The two conscious men were tied to thick posts near the centre of the barn, while Aramis lay against the back wall of an open stall. Much to his chagrin, d’Artagnan had been relegated to take care of the horses and it took him some time to untack them all and provide them with food and water before being able to return and check on his friends. He did his best to keep an ear out for any of the goings on as his task took him further into the back of the building, but he could only catch the occasional barked laugh or what sounded like someone raising a voice in anger. Finishing as quickly as he was able, the Gascon returned to the centre of the barn where most of the men were gathered, either sitting or standing in a loose semi-circle around the tied Musketeers.

 

Andre was facing his bound prisoners and it was clear from the looks of amusement on the bandits’ faces that he had been having some fun at the Musketeers’ expense. The Gascon sidled his way up to one of the other posts where he could have a clear view of his friends, and leaned against it, trying his best to adopt a demeanor of indifference at the men’s plight.

 

“So, how did you anger your Captain to have been unfortunate enough to have been sent here?” Andre mocked.

 

“Should you ever have the pleasure of meeting our Captain, I’m sure you’ll find that he is an incredibly even-tempered man.” Athos responded neutrally.

 

“He must not care very much for the three of you then, given the state of the last men we had sniffing around.” Andre threw a grin over his shoulder at his men and several of the outlaws guffawed at the comment.

 

“I can assure you that the Captain cares deeply for all of the men under his command” Athos replied, eyes flickering so quickly to d’Artagnan’s that the young man almost missed it.

 

Andre’s eyes lit up, knowingly, “You understand the burden of leadership. You lead these men.” He took a couple steps to his left before returning to his previous position. “That means that you are the person who can tell me what information you Captain possesses about our humble endeavors.”

 

Athos inclined his head slightly, relieved that the man’s attention remained on him rather than on one of his brothers.

 

“Pasquale, I would like your assistance, if you please.” The man that Andre had named was a hulking brute, rivalling Porthos’ size but without the Musketeer’s compassion and kindness. Pasquale had been one of d’Artagnan’s most persistent tormentors and the young man’s stomach clenched with worry as the bandit positioned himself to the right and slightly behind Athos, awaiting Andre’s orders.

 

“What were your orders?” Andre began.

 

“The King is concerned about the _harassment_ of those travelling through Gascony,” Athos responded.

 

“And, what does the King know of those responsible?” Andre continued.

 

“Only that the bandits seem exceptionally lucky in selecting their targets and that those attacked must pay a ransom for their freedom.”

 

“What else?” the other man demanded.

 

“That is all the information the King possesses.”

 

Andre nodded sharply to Pasquale and before Athos could brace himself, the large man had stepped forward and landed a harsh blow to Athos’ face.

 

Blood welled at a cut above Athos’ eyebrow but the man simply righted himself and stared at Andre. Another nod from the bandit leader had Athos spitting blood, this time from where his teeth had ripped a hole in his cheek, but his expression remained the same.

 

“Perhaps we need another form of persuasion,” Andre nodded his head to where Porthos was sitting, having watched the events so far with a murderous expression.

 

Pasquale brought his hands together in front of him, cracking his knuckles as he regarded the other Musketeer. With a cruel grin on his face he stepped forward and pushed hard on Porthos’ left shoulder. The effect was instantaneous and, despite his best efforts, Porthos was unable to contain the cry that the pressure on his injured shoulder elicited. When the bandit finally removed his hand, Porthos was left gasping for breath, doing all he could to manage the extreme pain.

 

Andre had watched Athos the entire time, and now chuckled at seeing the tensing of Athos’ shoulders and the clenched jaw in reaction to the other Musketeers’ cry. He addressed Athos again, “What other information does the King have?”

 

 Athos had been looking at Porthos, knowing that he had no information that could be shared, and that his continued silence would only mean more pain for his brother. He knew that as a seasoned soldier Porthos understood this, but it didn’t make the pain that Porthos was experiencing any easier for Athos to bear, knowing that he was the one causing it.

 

Athos looked over at the bandit, stating, “As I told you before, that is all the information the King possesses.”

 

Pasquale didn’t even wait for Andre to motion before he was pushing down hard on Porthos’ shoulder again. This time the action was expected and Porthos bit his lip hard, squeezing his eyes closed, as he struggled against the intense agony. Pasquale was relentless and he didn’t remove his hand until he felt the body beneath it go slack, growling lowly when he realized that the man had fallen unconscious. When Athos saw his friend’s body go slack, he quietly released the breath he’d been holding, grateful that Porthos would receive a brief respite from the pain. Andre, it seemed, was not nearly as pleased. “Bring me the other one,” he ordered.

 

“Wait, do you really want them dead this quickly,” d’Artagnan interjected. “You’ve already got one passed out and another who hasn’t even woken. How much leverage are two unconscious men going to be in getting this one to talk?” The Gascon held his breath as he waited for Andre to consider his words, hoping that he might be able to buy his friends some time to either recover or preferably escape.

 

“Fine, we’ll wait a while for them to wake up,” he caught d’Artagnan’s eye, “but not too long, understand.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded. “Perhaps I should see to the other one, make sure he’s still alive and that he will wake up?” Andre waved his hand in a noncommittal gesture that the young man decided to interpret as approval to do what he wanted.

 

Wasting no time, d’Artagnan filled a bucket with clean water, managed to secure a bottle with some dregs of wine in the bottom, and gathered some clean rags before making his way to Aramis’ side. Athos had tried to prop the man’s shoulders and head partly against the wall, but at some point he’d slumped over and now lay uncomfortably partly on his back and partly on his side, with one cheek pressing into the earth beneath his head. Taking great care, the Gascon tugged and turned his brother so that he lay prone on the ground, gathering a small amount of clean hay which he placed under the man’s head as a makeshift pillow. Next, he ghosted his fingers over his brother’s neck, assuring himself that Aramis’ heart still beat, sighing in relief when he located the comforting rhythm. He dipped one of the rags into the bucket of water and began to gently but swiftly clean the blood away from the man’s face and hair, all the while keeping an eye on the bandits to make sure that no one noticed his gentleness with the Musketeer. When the blood had been mostly cleaned away, d’Artagnan was able to see its source – a deep groove, which ran along the side of the man’s head, just above his ear, most likely caused by the shot d’Artagnan had heard just before he watched Aramis collapse.

 

Saying a silent prayer of thanks that his brother hadn’t been more seriously injured, d’Artagnan pressed along the wound, searching for the softness that Aramis had told him would indicate a crack or break in the skull. Fortune seemed to be smiling on them again, as he felt nothing but hard bone underneath his fingers. Moving Aramis’ hair away from the wound as best he could, d’Artagnan tipped the wine bottle so the small amount remaining could cleanse the long gash. As the wine touched his wound, Aramis whimpered and the Gascon placed a gentle hand on the man’s chest, murmuring quiet words of comfort, while again checking that no one was paying attention to his actions. d’Artagnan folded one of the clean cloths he’d brought into a bandage for the laceration, ripping a second one into long strips that would hold the bandage in place. Preparing to place the bandage and bind the wound, the young man was startled to see a pair of unfocused eyes looking up at him, and he quickly moved his body to prevent the others from seeing that the Musketeer was awake.

 

Replacing his hand on the wounded man’s chest, d’Artagnan whispered quietly, “Aramis, you must remain still. You were captured by the bandits and they will hurt you to get Athos to talk if they know you’re awake.” The young man watched Aramis carefully as the words were absorbed and he could see the moment when Aramis remembered some of the events leading up to their capture. He opened his mouth to speak, but d’Artagnan placed a hand gently over his mouth, and shook his head. “Porthos is here as well. Both Athos and Porthos have minor wounds but it is you who is causing everyone to worry.” Aramis swallowed thickly at the other man’s words and d’Artagnan felt safe removing his hand. “Close your eyes and stay quiet – I’ll be right back.”

 

When Aramis had closed his eyes, the Gascon felt safe leaving his side for a moment and he picked up the bucket, intending to replace the rust-colored water with clean water from the well. He completed the task quickly, garnering only a couple of half-interested looks from the bandits as he returned to the back of the stall, again blocking everyone’s view of his friend. Dipping a clean cloth into the water, d’Artagnan placed one hand on Aramis’ chest while the other brought the cloth to Aramis’ mouth. The prone man opened his eyes and mouth as soon as the wet cloth touched his lips and swallowed greedily the small amounts of water the d’Artagnan dribbled into his mouth.

 

“Thank you,” Aramis exhaled in a thready voice, his eyes closing again.

 

d’Artagnan squeezed his friend’s shoulder in reply. “Aramis, I must leave you now.” Aramis opened his eyes as he listened. “I’ll do everything I can to keep you and the others safe, but…” the young man trailed off, but both men understood what hadn’t been said. _I’ll try to you keep you safe, but I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do._

 

“S’alright,” Aramis breathed out.

 

The Gascon squeezed his friend’s shoulder again. “I’ll be back when I can with more water. Try to rest until I can figure something out.” By the time that he’d gathered everything up, Aramis was asleep, but d’Artagnan was hopeful that he would be alright now that he had woken. Walking out of the stall toward the barn doors, the young man could feel Athos’ eyes on him. Without looking at the other man, he nodded his head once, hoping that his mentor would understand the message that Aramis was still alive and doing better.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank  you to everyone who continues to read and review this story. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Porthos had awoken a couple hours later, groggy and in pain. When Athos noticed him awake, he sent the man a questioning look asking how he was feeling. Porthos managed a brief smile before looking with concern toward the stall where Aramis was being kept. Athos gave a return smile, albeit a small one, to let Porthos know that Aramis still lived and Porthos almost slumped over in relief.

 

A small group of bandits had been sent out to hunt for their lunch, earning the Musketeers a somewhat longer reprieve from Pasquale’s coercion, especially when Andre decided to wait until after they’d eaten to return to his questioning. d’Artagnan had made sure to stay close to the men in the barn, hoping to glean some information about Andre’s plans for his friends, but the men either didn’t know or weren’t willing to say. The young man was incredibly grateful that Andre had put the needs of his stomach before his need for information, and while he knew it was only delaying the inevitable, he was glad of every minute that his friends remained untouched.

 

When Andre finally stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches, d’Artagnan tensed in anticipation of what was to come. Pasquale had also been watching and he walked over to stand between Athos and Porthos, looking to his leader for direction about which man would be the first to receive his attention.

 

“So Musketeer, you’ve had some time with your pain and the pain of your friend. Shall we continue our conversation?”

 

Athos merely stared at Andre, remaining silent. Andre looked at Pasquale for a moment before motioning to the right with his head. Pasquale moved confidently to stand in front of Athos, who looked up at his arrival, and then planted his boot squarely in Athos’ chest. The Musketeers’ breath left him in a great whoosh of air and left him gasping as the pain of the blow momentarily paralyzed his diaphragm. While he was still trying to recover, Andre had motioned to his left and Pasquale had moved to Porthos where he was preparing to mercilessly push against the man’s battered shoulder. Before he could make contact, the door to the barn swung open and the man turned as one at the disturbance.

 

“Marchand,” one of the bandits greeted the new arrival.

 

 d’Artagnan watched Andre’s expression carefully, realizing that he had never seen Marchand before even though he was fairly confident that he knew all of the men. “What are you doing here?” Andre demanded.

 

“I have news, “Marchand began, before being interrupted by Andre.

 

“Not here,” and the bandit leader took the man’s arm and led him outside. d’Artagnan waited to see if anyone else would follow the pair outside, but all of the men remained where they were, apparently content to wait until Andre’s return. While they waited the Gascon cast a careful eye over his two brothers, noting that Athos was still hunched forward a little as he regained his breath and Porthos simply looked as murderous as ever at the fact that Athos had been hurt again.

 

Andre returned to the barn after a few minutes and pointed at two of the men. “Blanchard, Vidal, you’ll stay here with the prisoners. The rest of you get the horses ready. We leave immediately.”

 

As the man turned to leave again, d’Artagnan shared a fearful look with Athos before stepping forward to follow. “Andre, perhaps I should stay here? Continue taking care of the prisoners for you?”

 

Andre stopped in his tracks and turned to face the Gascon, an inquiring look on his face as he examined the other man in an attempt to ferret out any deception. Seeing none, Andre finally nodded, exiting the barn and d’Artagnan sighed in relief. At least he would be able to keep his brothers safe and perhaps even help them escape while the others were gone. 

* * *

He hated Blanchard and Vidal, d’Artagnan decided. He had hoped that the men might get bored and leave the barn for a bit, or drink heavily and pass out, but so far the two men sat quietly, trading stories, meticulously cleaning first their pistols, then sharpening their swords and now Vidal was working on his harquebus. The Gascon had followed suit, sitting himself nearby, but after cleaning and reloading his pistol and honing the edge of his sword blade there really wasn’t much left for him to do. Risking a few minutes away, d’Artagnan grabbed his nearly empty water skin, indicating his intention to fill it, to the men as he passed. He had used the well outside when watering the horses and tending to Aramis’ wounds, but his objective this time was to explore the area and see if he could find anything useful.

 

He walked first around one side of the barn where he found firewood stacked and ready to use. Following the side of the barn around to the back, he discovered a grassy field, and in the distance a stand of trees. Walking towards the trees, he soon heard the sound of running water and was surprised to find that the flat meadow ended abruptly and the ground dropped off at a steep decline to the edge of the stream he’d heard, nearly 100 feet below where he stood. The woods he’d seen stood atop the hill on the other side of the water below. d’Artagnan walked back to the barn, exploring the other side of the building this time, but found nothing more of interest there. Remembering the water skin still held in his hand, he detoured quickly to the well before heading back inside. He drank deeply and then decided if he was thirsty, his friends must be also. He doubted that he’d be allowed to provide water to Athos and Porthos but perhaps tending to Aramis wouldn’t seem to out of place, given his earlier ministrations. Walking confidently past the two outlaws, he made his way to the stall where Aramis lay and was gladdened to have his thoughts confirmed as the two men barely glanced at him as he passed.

 

Aramis was still resting quietly, eyes closed, and the paleness of his face worried the young man. Kneeling next to his friend, d’Artagnan turned his back to the two bandits and placed his hand on Aramis’ cheek, whispering his name quietly and urging him to awaken. Given the severity of the head wound, d’Artagnan was pleased when his friend woke after only a minute or so and opened bleary eyes to see the Gascon’s smiling face above him. He did his best to return the smile, but pain formed it into more of a grimace.

 

d’Artagnan placed a finger over the man’s lips, motioning for silence, and then placed a hand behind Aramis’ head to lift him slightly, guiding the water skin to his mouth so he could drink. Aramis managed a few small mouthfuls and sighed in relief at having his head replaced on the straw underneath it. Struggling to form the words, Aramis murmured, “Others?”

 

“Still doing well,” the Gascon replied soothingly. While his description might not be entirely accurate, there was nothing that could be done to improve their situation at the moment, and worrying over his friends would only make Aramis’ recovery harder. “Most of the men have left. I’m not sure how long they’ll be away but I’m going to find a way to get all of you out of here.”

 

“How many?” Aramis slurred. A look of confusion crossed d’Artagnan’s face until he realized his friend was asking how many bandits still guarded them.

 

“Two but, sadly, they seem to take their job very seriously and I haven’t had any opportunity to remove them,” d’Artagnan shook his head in regret.

 

“Careful,” Aramis forced out, the effort clearly costing him.

 

The Gascon had to lean forward to hear the softly spoken words, and he gave his friend a reassuring smile before the man’s eyes slipped closed. He squeezed the Musketeer’s shoulder in encouragement as he made to leave. “Rest my friend, I’ll take care of everything.”

 

Plastering a neutral look on his face, the Gascon rose from Aramis’ side and left the stall, wandering back to rejoin the bandits. Trying to be nonchalant, he addressed the two men, “Bit boring this guard duty, eh?”

 

The men looked up at the question and Vidal narrowed his eyes as he replied, “Used to more excitement, are you?”

 

Blanchard chuckled at his partner’s words, “Yeah, missing the barmaids and crooked card games amidst the stink of Paris?”

 

d’Artagnan chose his words carefully, “Just thought there’d be more opportunity for action, you know?”

 

Blanchard and Vidal traded looks. “If it’s action you want, we can give you that.” Blanchard rose with a grin from where he was sitting, removed his weapons belt, and assumed a ready position, fists raised and feet shoulder width apart. The Gascon did the same, catching the badly disguised look of concern on his mentor’s face, before turning his attention back to his opponent. Blanchard began slowly as the two circled each other, aiming a jab at the young man’s face which he was able to avoid by pulling back sharply. The next strike was a left hook that skimmed the top of d’Artagnan’s head as he ducked to escape it. And so it went for the next several minutes, with each man landing a few minor blows to the other’s face and torso, but neither managing anything of consequence. d’Artagnan knew that even sparring of this sort would take a toll on his body and he still had a second man to contend with, so as Blanchard stepped forward to aim a kick at his stomach, d’Artagnan deftly turned his hip so that it deflected the blow and grabbed the other man’s ankle, pulling and twisting sharply. It was a dirty move, and the young man recognized it as such, but his need to help his friends overcame his instincts for a fair fight. The move had the intended result as Blanchard fell backwards heavily, yelling out in pain as his ankle snapped under the torque d’Artagnan had exerted.

 

The Gascon stepped back immediately, panting for breath, as Vidal surged over to check on his friend who was now unconscious from either the pain or from hitting his head when he fell. Enraged eyes met his when Vidal realized the extent of the damage the young man had inflicted and, without any opportunity to prepare, d’Artagnan was fending off the other man’s vicious attack. Unlike Blanchard, Vidal was uninterested in testing his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses and was driven by a desire only to take revenge on behalf of his partner. He rained blow after blow at d’Artagnan’s head and torso, and the young man was hard pressed to do anything more than minimize the effects of the hits he was receiving. Reeling from a particularly nasty uppercut, the Gascon found himself several feet away from his aggressor, leaning against one wall. As he lifted his head from where it hung limply, he could see the rage in Porthos’ eyes and the fear in Athos’ and he knew that he needed to end this fight quickly. Not needing to feign the light-headedness that was now plaguing him, the Gascon leaned forward and removed a small dagger from his boot. Raising himself up he brought his arm up at the same time, releasing the knife from his hand in an underhand throw that placed the blade in the other man’s neck. Vidal’s eyes opened in shock at the unexpected turn of events, before falling to his knees and then his side as massive blood loss robbed him of the ability to stand.

 

d’Artagnan found himself on the ground, back still against the side of the barn, trembling from the vestiges of adrenaline that had fueled his efforts during the fight. Through the buzzing and heavy whump of his heartbeat in his ears, he could vaguely make out some other sounds, but was not aware enough to make sense of them. He sat like this for over a minute before his senses returned and he realized that the sounds he was hearing was the voices of his friends. Lifting his head he saw the looks of panic on his brothers’ faces and realized they must have been calling to him for some time.

 

“M’alright,” he mumbled as he pushed himself up with one arm braced against the wall, steadying himself for several seconds as a wave of dizziness assaulted him. His friends had both gone silent as they watched him stand, both clearly wishing they were free so they could help him up. The thought had d’Artagnan equal parts annoyed and comforted and he repeated again, as he opened his eyes, “I’m alright.”

 

The two men watched as d’Artagnan went first to check on the bandits, confirming the death of one and that the other was still passed out. Next, he retrieved his dagger and wiped it on Vidal’s shirt, and made his way towards Athos, intending to release him. A quick shake of Athos’ head had him changing direction to Porthos instead, who rolled his eyes at the gesture.

 

“How are ya, lad?” Porthos enquired as the Gascon knelt as his back to gain access to the ropes that held him in place.

 

“Told you, I’m fine,” d’Artagnan replied in irritation. He braced a hand on Porthos arm, beneath the injured shoulder, as he sawed through the ropes at the man’s wrists. As the rope came free and Porthos’ arms were released, d’Artagnan took great care to support Porthos’ left arm as he slowly brought it forward and placed it into the man’s lap, trying to minimize the amount of pain that the act was causing his friend. Porthos’ eyes had closed and he was breathing heavily as the blood rushed back into his arms and his tortured shoulder was freed from its unnatural position.

 

The Gascon placed a hand on the back of Porthos’ neck, grounding the Musketeer as he battled the pain. When the agony had receded to a more manageable level, the swarthy man opened his eyes and smiled in gratitude at the young man. “Took ya long enough.”

 

 A dark look crossed d’Artagnan’s face before he dipped his head, conveying the guilt he carried for not having been able to help his friends sooner. In exasperation, Porthos lifted the young man’s chin with his right hand, saying “None of that now. You kept your head in an impossible situation and made sure things didn’t get any worse. None of us could ‘ave done any better.”

 

A small smile appeared on d’Artagnan’s face and he nodded gratefully at the other man’s words. “Now, go see to Athos.” He lowered his voice as he continued, “He’ll tell you he’s alright but he has a way of downplaying his injuries, right?” d’Artagnan nodded in understanding and stood up. Porthos raised his arm in a silent request to be helped up and the Gascon hesitated, biting his lip. Rolling his eyes, Porthos spoke, “Come on now. One of us needs to check on Aramis and I’m well enough to do that while you see to Athos.”

 

Looking at his mentor, d’Artagnan saw an unhappy acceptance of Porthos’ words, and he grasped the larger man’s forearm before slowly lifting him to his feet. Porthos nodded his thanks before grasping his left arm close to his stomach and making his way over to the stall where Aramis lay. d’Artagnan made his way to where Athos sat and kneeled behind him to cut his bindings.

 

“Are you alright?” Athos serious voice startled him.

 

“I’m fine, Athos, really,” the young man replied.

 

“That was an interesting move you applied,” Athos murmured. The Gascon blushed, knowing his mentor was referring to the one that had defeated Blanchard.

 

“I was once told that staying alive is the primary objective,” d’Artagnan responded.

 

“Indeed,” Athos said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Then you have done well to apply that advice.”

 

A feeling of warmth rushed through the younger man’s chest as he realized Athos’ approval of his tactic. “There,” he said as the knife bit through the last threads of the rope. As he had done with Porthos, the Gascon support Athos’ injured arm and helped the man bring it to the front of his body. While Athos closed his eyes, resting his head against the beam behind him, d’Artagnan took the opportunity to pull open Athos’ sleeve and examine the wound underneath. Athos opened an eye at the action but didn’t say anything, which d’Artagnan took as permission to proceed.

 

“Blade or ball?” the Gascon queried as he examined the wound.

 

“Blade,” Athos replied disgustedly. “One of the men managed to get past my guard while I was in the process of despatching another.” Ah, one of the cowardly bandits had taken advantage of Athos, attacking him while he was already engaged with of the men.

 

“It’ll need stitches,” d’Artagnan met the other man’s eyes.

 

“Yes,” Athos sighed, “I thought as much, but this isn’t the time or place. Bind it tightly and it will hold until we reach a more secure location.” d’Artagnan looked like he might protest, but the stern look on his mentor’s face silenced any further objections. The Gascon moved away retrieving his water skin and the last of the clean cloths he’d used on Aramis, dampening one to carefully clean the sliced skin as best he could.

 

“How is Aramis?” Athos prompted, unable to hide the concern in his voice.

 

d’Artagnan worked quickly and expertly, binding the wound tightly. “Creased by a ball. He’s awoken both times I’ve been with him and taken some water.” d’Artagnan lowered his voice as he looked at his mentor with apprehension, “I’m not sure he’ll be able to ride.”

 

“Aramis is stronger than you give him credit,” Athos countered. “It will not be graceful, but he will keep his seat.” The conviction in Athos’ voice had the Gascon nodding in agreement. When he was finished bandaging Athos’ arm, the older man looked down and nodded in appreciation and the Gascon helped him to stand. “What of those two,” he asked, motioning to the prone bandits.

 

“I don’t know,” the young man replied uncertainly. “I hadn’t actually thought beyond releasing you.”

 

Athos placed a hand at the young man’s neck, “No matter. We’ll need to saddle the horses and leave before your fugitive friends return.”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan stepped away from the other man’s touch. “I have to stay here. We still don’t know the identity of Andre’s spy at Court.”

 

Fear gripped Athos’ heart as he heard the truth of the young man’s words, but he could not accept that d’Artagnan would not stay in the safety of his brothers and return with them to Paris. “d’Artagnan,” he started.

 

“No, Athos,” the Gascon shook his head and walked a few steps before turning back to his mentor. “We are soldiers and we follow orders. Regardless of our personal feelings, our duty comes first.”

 

Athos felt a burst of pride even as he admitted to himself that d’Artagnan was right and would have to stay behind, despite the danger to himself. Shifting back into his role of leader, Athos forced down his feelings of trepidation as he addressed the young man. “If you’re staying, those two will need to be disposed of,” he said, pointing at the outlaws. “Can you convince the others that we overwhelmed you and somehow escaped?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded confidently. “There’s a stream out back. I’m not sure how deep but it lies at the bottom of a steep drop. I doubt these two will be found there. As for convincing the others, my fight with these two will make it more believable since I’ll wear the signs of their blows for several days.”

 

Athos cringed at those words, but accepted that d’Artagnan was correct and the bruises that would blossom would help to make his story more convincing. “Very well then. Can you manage these two while I see to Porthos and Aramis?” The Gascon nodded in response. “When you return we’ll need to ready the horses and make haste to depart.”

 

d’Artagnan walked over to Blanchard’s body, knowing that he was likely condemning the unconscious man to drown in the stream, but he pushed away these feelings again reminding himself of the stakes that were at risk if he were found out by the other bandits. As the young man hefted the bandit’s body over his shoulder, Athos watched him leave with a heavy heart, already feeling the loss of their brother even though they hadn’t yet parted.


	7. Chapter 7

d’Artagnan had made quick work of the two bandits’ bodies, watching carefully to ensure that both had rolled into the stream and were swallowed up by the water below. When he returned to the barn, Athos had located their weapons and his and Aramis’ hat, and Porthos had managed to waken Aramis and move him into a semi-upright positon against the back wall of the horse stall. He made his way over to Aramis, a broad grin on his face at seeing the man showing some small signs of life. Aramis saw him coming and returned a somewhat dimmer version of his own smile, saying, “d’Artagnan, I am glad you’re safe.” Casting an appraising eye over the young man, he noted the swelling beginning under the man’s right eye, the split lip that hadn’t yet had time enough to form a proper scab, and the general weariness that seemed to hang over the young man like a cloak.

 

Adopting a more serious tone, Aramis asked, “Are you alright, lad?”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head at the attention he was now receiving from all three of his brothers, and then looked Aramis directly in the eye, stating sincerely, “Yes, I’m fine.” Aramis must have been satisfied because he broke d’Artagnan’s gaze and enquired, “So, when are we getting out of here? I’m generally not one to complain, but these accommodations have been even worse than I can turn a blind eye to.”

 

At this, Porthos snorted and Athos smiled affectionately before clapping d’Artagnan on the back. They had all missed these moments of camaraderie and sorely needed a moment of brevity before dealing with the seriousness of their situation.

 

Athos donned his hat, addressing first Porthos and Aramis and then turning to d’Artagnan. “Porthos, we will finish readying the horses. Please do your best to help Aramis prepare for the road ahead.” They all knew that Aramis would have a difficult time remaining in the saddle, and Porthos rose to gather the rope that had bound the two of them earlier so they’d have something to tie Aramis to his horse. “d’Artagnan, please assist me with the horses.” The young man nodded and fell into step behind the other man as they made their way to the occupied stalls near the back of the barn.

 

As the men worked in tandem to saddle three of the horses, d’Artagnan asked the question that had been plaguing him since finding his brothers in town. “How did you find me?”

 

“We didn’t,” the other man admitted. “We’d been stopping along the road to speak with locals to gather information about the bandits’ whereabouts and got lucky when a merchant who’d pass through recently talked about the rough-looking men in town. It turns out he was correct that _his_ rough-looking men were also the ones _we_ were looking for.” Changing topics, Athos questioned, “What will you tell the bandits when they return?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged as he replied, “That you somehow got free of your bonds while we slept and overpowered us.”

 

“And the two missing men?” Athos persisted.

 

“That you must have killed them and disposed of the bodies.”

 

“No, better to leave them guessing. Tell them that you fell during the fight and are unaware of their fate. We’ll bring along two of their horses so they may believe that the men are in pursuit. That may buy us all a bit of time.”

 

The Gascon nodded at the sound idea, then helped Athos finish with the third horse, before taking all three of the leads and guiding the horses outside; behind him, he could hear his mentor doing the same with the two other horses which would be released somewhere along their route home. Next, d’Artagnan took several minutes to relay what he knew of the bandits, including directions from the town to their forest camp and the description of the man called Marchand. When he was finished, he returned inside to find Porthos again kneeling next to Aramis, helping him drink some water. “Perhaps it would be best if we made the trip outside in stages,” d’Artagnan suggested, worried at the pallor that still showed on his friend’s face. Porthos quickly saw the wisdom of the younger man’s proposal and moved to place Aramis’ arm over his uninjured shoulder.

 

Stepping forward quickly, the Gascon stopped him, gently teasing, “Why don’t you let me do it…just this one time.” Porthos hated that he was unable to help his friend properly, but released his hold on Aramis, who looked up at him and smiled in agreement. d’Artagnan ducked his shoulder under Aramis’ arm and hooked a hand at his waist. At a short nod from Aramis, the Gascon lifted him slowly to his feet, holding him while he swayed dizzily from the change in elevation and the effects of the head wound. When the older man’s breathing had returned to normal, d’Artagnan felt it safe to begin walking them forward, Aramis doing his best shuffle along beside and Porthos hovering on his other side, just in case he faltered.

 

Outside, Athos waited with the horses and he shared a look of concern with Porthos at seeing Aramis shuffling along, head bent low, with nearly all of his weight being support by the younger man. d’Artagnan lowered Aramis gently against the shaded wall of the barn, while Athos ripped some linen from the bottom of his shirt, wet it in the well, and returned to Aramis’ side to wipe the man’s face and neck. Seeing Aramis in good hands, d’Artagnan turned his attention to Porthos, who stood holding his left arm tightly to himself.

 

“Dislocated?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Likely. It’s happened a few times in the past and it just seems to pop out easier every time it happens.”

 

d’Artagnan placed himself in front of the larger man, raising his hands and then seeking Porthos’ eyes before pulling Porthos’ shirt away from his shoulder. Underneath he found the grotesquely swollen and bruised joint, and had to swallow back the bile that threatened to appear at the site. “Porthos,” the Gascon caught the other man’s eye, “it’s bad. I’m not sure it will go back in right now.”

 

Porthos seemed unsurprised by the news, having expected this to be the case after the ill treatment the shoulder had received since being hurt. He motioned to his belt, saying, “Bind my arm tight against my body. That’ll have to do until the swelling goes down enough to force it back into place.”

 

d’Artagnan hesitated but the trust in Porthos eyes had him moving to remove the man’s belt, placing the limp left arm across Porthos’ chest, before binding it into place with the tightly cinched belt. “Is it too tight?” the Gascon asked as he saw the look of pain on the other man’s face.

 

Porthos shook his head, “No, it’s perfect,” he swallowed, “just doesn’t feel very good having my arm moved around.”

 

The younger man nodded and placed a hand on Porthos’ back to support and comfort him as he breathed through the pain and obvious nausea it had induced, if the paleness and continual swallowing were any indication. Finally, he seemed to have things under control and d’Artagnan murmured, “Better?”

 

“Yeah, m’alright now. Let’s go check on Athos and Aramis.”

 

Athos sat beside Aramis against the wall of the barn; Aramis had closed his eyes after losing his own battle with his stomach and now rested with his head on Athos’ shoulder. At the others’ approach, Aramis slowly lifted his head and inspected the sling d’Artagnan had created for Porthos through bleary eyes. Seemingly passing inspection, Aramis expressed his approval. “You’ve done a fine job.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis’ words, wondering if Aramis could even see his arm, but he didn’t say anything, seeing the grin it brought to d’Artagnan’s face. Athos moved slowly from Aramis’ side, taking care not to jostle the man as he stood, and motioned to the younger man to help him lift Aramis to his feet. This time with two of his brothers helping him walk, Aramis felt a little steadier, but his confidence soon disappeared when faced with the daunting task of mounting his horse.

 

As the two men prepared to lift Aramis into the saddle, d’Artagnan asked, “Wouldn’t it be easier for one of you to sit behind him and hold him?”

 

Athos nodded in agreement, “Easier and probably safer as well, but we don’t have the luxury of moving him between horses so they don’t tire.” The Gascon realized what Athos hadn’t said: _We’re not fit enough to be able to move him between the horses ourselves._

 

Asking no further questions, d’Artagnan helped Athos get Aramis into the saddle, where the injured man sat slumped over, hands twisted in both the horse’s reins and mane in an effort to stay seated. Next, the young man helped Porthos onto his horse, before turning to see if his mentor required assistance. He was surprised to be grasped tightly by the older man’s arms in a desperate hug. When Athos released him, the young man was certain he saw an unnatural wetness in Athos’ eyes, but he turned away to quickly to be sure.

 

Athos mounted his horse and looked down at his protégé who reminded him, “When they find you gone, they’ll probably abandon this place and move back to the camp.”

 

Athos nodded. “Give us four days, five at the outside. We’ll get word to Treville to come prepared.” With those words, the three men rode off, moving the horses at a fast walk in deference to their injuries. Five days, d’Artagnan repeated to himself – he could do that.

* * *

The three wounded men had ridden away taking a rather circuitous route that added many hours to their trip, but was ultimately far safer. Aramis had stayed awake for nearly a full hour before succumbing to his wound, at which point Athos tied him securely to his horse so that he didn’t fall; it wasn’t the most pleasant way to ride, hunched over as the man was, but it was necessary. Porthos was in constant pain from the jolting of the horse underneath him but he, like Athos, was loathe to stop before they found somewhere they could hide and attend to their wounds in relative safety. Nearing night, Athos was growing anxious that they might have to sleep outdoors when Porthos pointed out lights ahead. The lights came from a small farmhouse, where an elderly man and his wife welcomed them and offered them a hot meal and a small bedroom where they could rest for the night.

 

Athos was more grateful than words could express to the man and his wife, and he cautioned them strongly about the necessity to keep their presence secret, playing to the wife’s notion of the romantic Musketeers’ life. They settled Aramis into the sole bed in the room, removing his boots, shirt and breeches. Porthos then coaxed him into drinking a half cup of broth prepared by the lady of the house, before sitting down on the end of the bed, fatigue rolling off him in waves.

 

“Stay here,” Athos ordered. “I’ll see what food and blankets they can spare for us.”

 

Returning several minutes later with a basket in one hand and blankets in the other, he smirked affectionately at the sight of Porthos lying partially over Aramis’ legs as he snored soundly. As much as he knew that Porthos needed the rest, he also knew that their last meal had been too long ago, so after laying his things down, he proceeded to wake the other man. Porthos was as happy as Athos had expected him to be at having his sleep disturbed, but was willing to forgive Athos for waking him once directed to the basket of food. Since the room was too small for a table, the men laid a blanket on the floor next to the bed and ate on the floor, the food and a modest bottle of wine sitting between them.

 

When Porthos’ hunger had been satisfied, he looked at their leader, eyes drifting to the man’s right arm where blood had spotted the bandage. “That arm needs some needlework,” he stated knowingly.

 

Athos looked down at his arm, seemingly uninterested, and replied, “but our resident medic is currently indisposed.” It was no secret that Aramis’ gift with a needle and thread was unmatched in the garrison, and neither man trusted anyone else to stitch them back together when the situation demanded.

 

“I could do it,” Porthos offered.

 

“Mmm, while I appreciate the offer, my friend, I expect that you’d have nearly as hard a time with a needle as Aramis would right now.” Athos knew that while Porthos was not particularly skilled at stitching, it would still be better than having to do it himself – normally. Tonight, between the exhaustion and pain he was suffering from, Athos doubted the man could even see straight.

 

Porthos didn’t protest as he directed, “At least let me help you clean it first.”

 

To this Athos agreed, and he collected needle and thread and some clean bandages from their hosts before allowing Porthos to unwrap his arm and scrub the wound thoroughly, first with water and then with the remains of their wine. Porthos chuckled at the look of sadness of Athos’ face as he poured the wine on the wound. “Doubt you’ll need it to sleep tonight, anyway.”

 

Athos didn’t argue and applied himself to stitching up his arm, allowing Porthos to rewrap it in clean linen when he was done. After cleaning up the remains of their meal, the two men forced Aramis to drink again before allowing him to slumber, and then settled on the floor next to their brother, both falling quickly into a deep sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

When his brothers had ridden away, d’Artagnan found himself somewhat at loose ends, uncertain about when the bandits would return and anxious about whether or not they would believe his story. He returned to the barn and examined it dispassionately, putting himself into the role of the bandit leader and assessing what conclusions might be drawn from what he’d see. The stall in the back lay empty, the straw d’Artagnan had used to pillow Aramis head still piled in place. The Gascon walked over and kicked it around, eradicating any trace of his kindness.

 

Next he slowly turned around surveying the centre of the barn where, on one side, his brothers had been restrained and on the other, the bandits had sat. He noticed that the rope that bound his brothers was gone from the floor of the barn and remembered Porthos winding a length of rope, which he attached to his saddle. The bandits’ weapons were gone, having been taken by the Musketeers to augment their defenses. d’Artagnan’s eyes continued to examine every inch of the large room, landing on the blood stain caused by Vidal’s death. His heart jolted at the sight of it, knowing that the amount of blood staining the ground cast doubt on the idea that the man who shed it had been capable of riding out after the escaped Musketeers.

 

The floor of the barn was hard-packed earth, so the Gascon was unable to simply kick dirt over the stain. He thought briefly of hiding it under straw but its location would seem out of place near the centre of the building. With determined strides he moved swiftly to the door, intending to gather dirt from outside which could be used to cover the stain, but as he stood in the doorway, the sound of hoof beats met his ears and he could barely see the outline of riders approaching. Ducking back inside, d’Artagnan looked around in panic, trying to come up with a suitable plan. His gaze was drawn to the bloodstain again and the Gascon was struck by an idea which he knew his brothers would not approve of.

 

Sitting down next to the still tacky puddle of red, the young man drew his dagger and took a deep breath, holding it while he pulled the dagger across his side, just beneath his ribcage. Harshly panting against the pain, he examined the cut, ensuring that it was deep and long enough to be convincing. Next, he wiped the dagger on his shirt, just beneath the wound, and replaced the knife in his boot. Last, he wadded up the bottom of his shirt and pressed the material to his bleeding side until a large stain of red replaced the white of the linen. He could hear the horses getting ever closer so, with careful precision, he lay back on the ground ensuring his body partially covered the other man’s bloodstain, and arranged his limbs loosely and closed his eyes, anticipating the bandits’ entrance.

* * *

Andre swung off his horse, happy to be out of the saddle and looking forward to resuming his interrogation of the prisoners. He was the first one at the door of the barn and he stopped two steps inside as he was met by the sights and smells that awaited him. The posts where his prisoners had sat were bare, as was the horse stall that had held the third man. On the other side, he was struck by his men’s absence and the strong smell of iron that hung in the air. In his haste to survey the room, he almost missed the presence of a man lying on the ground. His feet carried him forward as several of his other men joined him inside, just as confused by the situation as he was.

 

d’Artagnan! Andre moved forward swiftly now that he knew the identity of the body, and upon closer inspection, also the source of the blood that cloyingly permeated the air around him. Jaubert had been a half-step behind Andre, and he now stepped forward, dropped to his haunches beside the bleeding man to place two fingers at his throat.

 

“Still alive,” Jaubert reported.

 

Andre grunted in reply, scanning the building again for any indications of what had happened. Jaubert had lifted the Gascon’s shirt, exposing the gash along his side, and Andre looked at it thoughtfully. “He will live?” Andre asked.

 

Jaubert nodded. “This will need some needlework, and it looks like he’s got a fair number of bruises,” he pointed to d’Artagnan’s chest, face and his abraded knuckles, “but as long as he don’t take a fever, he should be fine.” Andre nodded as Jaubert returned to his prodding of the young man’s side.

 

The Gascon had been lying limply, listening to the two men discuss his fate. Knowing that he could never pretend to be unconscious while having his skin sewn, he allowed a moan to escape his throat. The sound gained both men’s attention, and Andre indicated to Jaubert, “Wake him.”

 

Jaubert slapped the Gascon’s check once, then a second time, before shaking him roughly by the shoulder. This elicited another moan which d’Artagnan didn’t have to fake, and then he half-opened his eyes. “Wha’?” he mumbled.

 

“What happened here?” Andre demanded.

 

d’Artagnan continued to blink lazily at the man, giving the impression that he wasn’t quite aware yet of what was going on. At a look from Andre, Jaubert slapped the young man hard across the cheek. d’Artagnan closed his eyes against the sting of the blow, swallowing a couple times before reopening them.

 

“Where is everyone,” Andre hissed angrily.

 

d’Artagnan rolled his head from one side to the other, seemingly trying to orient himself and recall the information that Andre was seeking. “We were only gone a few hours and I come back to find,” Andre raised his hands, “this!” With his last word, he stepped forward and kicked angrily at d’Artagnan’s injured side.

 

The blow caused d’Artagnan to roll to his side, attempting to curl up at the pain, but his efforts were halted by Jaubert who held him flat. The Gascon coughed as he fought to regain his breath and then looked up at Andre.

 

“Escaped,” he breathed out, lifting his head. “Were sleeping and,” he paused and winced as his side flared, “and they must ‘ave overpowered us.” Another weak cough escaped, “Don’t know where the others are.” With that, d’Artagnan laid his head back on the ground, doing his best to control the pain in his side.

 

Jaubert sat waiting for several seconds while Andre considered the information. Having made a decision, he turned to his men. “Take everything valuable and attach it to the horses; we’ll not be returning here. Jaubert, bind the wound so he can travel and then get him on his horse.” As the men moved to obey his orders, Andre once again scanned the inside of the building, wondering what had really transpired while he was away.

* * *

Jaubert had been efficient but rough in applying the bandage to d’Artagnan’s side and he was confident that he no longer needed to pretend at the amount of pain he was in. The ride back to camp had been its own hellish journey, especially since Andre had insisted they keep the horses at a canter the majority of the way, causing d’Artagnan’s wound to stretch and rub against his waistband with every move of the horse. Even at the pace the bandits kept, it still took the better part of two hours to return to camp and the Gascon was nearly ready to pass out in relief by the time they arrived.

 

During their journey Andre had continually sent backward glances at the young man and d’Artagnan knew that the man still had questions. When they dismounted, Andre marched straight over to take the younger man’s arm, pushing him into one of the larger tents. Inside was a cot and a small table and chair, and d’Artagnan was pushed to sit on the edge of the cot while Andre sat across from him in the chair.

 

“I should like to hear again what happened after we left,” he declared tonelessly.

 

d’Artagnan supported his side as he spoke. “Nothing much happened in the first hours. We ate, cleaned our weapons, shared some wine, the usual things soldiers do,” the Gascon shrugged one shoulder. “Blanchard checked both of the men’s bonds and I made sure the third one was still alive. He still hadn’t woken so we left him where he was. Between the boredom, the heat and the wine, we must have dozed off. The next thing I knew, the prisoners were free and we fought. I must have been knocked out at some point and when I woke, you were there.”

 

Andre clenched his jaw, obviously unhappy with what he’d heard. “And Blanchard and Vidal?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged again, “I assume if they weren’t there, they must have ridden after the Musketeers.”

 

Andre stood and walked to the entrance to the tent, calling Jaubert over. Grabbing the Gascon’s arm again to lift him to his feet, Andre passed him over to Jaubert. “Take him to his tent and get him what he needs to tend that wound.”

 

“Shall I have Serge stitch him up?” Jaubert asked.

 

Andre’s eyes darkened as he answered, “No, I seem to remember young d’Artagnan always hanging off his mother’s skirts. I’m sure his needlework is much finer than anything Serge could do.” Jaubert nodded and d’Artagnan gasped as he was roughly pulled out of the tent, now having the experience of placing his own stitches to look forward to.

 

Fortunately, Jaubert did as he was ordered and provided d’Artagnan with needle and thread, water, some supposedly clean rags, a half bottle of wine and bandages. Once the supplies had been delivered, the Gascon found himself blessedly alone, so he didn’t bother hiding his winces and grunts of pain as he first cleaned then stitched the long cut on his side. By the time he had finished he was panting with the pain and had sweat running into his eyes. He had just enough energy left to wrap a bandage around his torso and drink the remaining wine, before lying back on his cot and allowing sleep to take him.

* * *

It was mid-morning before any of the Musketeers stirred, having had a rough night of increased wakefulness on Aramis’ part, which unfortunately, was also accompanied by numerous bouts of sickness. Porthos had sat beside Aramis as he gagged miserably and then helped him rinse and spit before doing it all over again half an hour later. Athos had been relegated to runner, emptying and rinsing the chamber pot between bouts of sickness and fetching clean water when they ran out. Aramis had finally settled into a more restful sleep in the early hours of the morning with Porthos lying on the bed beside him, and Athos retaking his place on the floor.

 

It was the sunshine landing on Athos’ face that woke him, and he lay for a few minutes in silence, taking stock of his body’s aches. His arm was tender, as were the spots that had received Pasquale’s attention; he could feel the pressure of a building headache behind his eyes and blamed that on a combination of little sleep and too much worry over the state of his brothers. Deciding he could no longer put off facing the day, he rolled to his side, pushing himself up to sit against the bed, and confirmed that both Porthos and Aramis still slept comfortably. After a quick rinse of his head and hands in the water bucket, he pulled on his boots and went in search of their hosts.

 

He was surprised to find a young man in the kitchen instead of the farmers he’d met the previous night. “Oh, hello, you must be the Musketeers grandma was telling me about,” he greeted cheerily. “Would you care for some breakfast? It’s actually nearer lunch now, but since you’re just up…” the young man trailed off as he noticed Athos’ serious look.

 

At that moment, the lady of the house walked in. “Good morning, how are you doing today?” she asked.

 

“I am well thank you. Not to be rude, Madame, but who is this young man?” Athos questioned carefully.

 

“Oh this is my grandson, Mathieu. When he showed up to help out in the fields, I asked to him to wait until you were up in case you needed anything,” the old woman replied.

 

“How very intuitive of you, Madame.” Athos turned to the young man, “Have you a fast horse and do you know the way to Paris?”

 

“Of course, Monsieur,” the lad answered proudly. “I once made the trip in two days.”

 

“Mathieu rides like he was practically born in the saddle,” his grandmother added.

 

“Madame, have you anything with which I can compose a note?” As the old woman bustled off, Athos returned his attention to Mathieu. “I have a most important message that must be delivered to the Musketeers, in a somewhat unusual location.” Within thirty minutes, the message had been composed outlining all the d’Artagnan had shared with him, and the boy was riding swiftly away.

 

“Now, Madame, may I trouble you for some breakfast?” Athos queried.

* * *

When Athos returned to their bedroom, both men appeared to be still asleep. Deciding to wake them so that they could move to the kitchen to eat, Athos walked softly over to the bed, surprised to find Aramis looking up at him.

 

A smile tugged at his lips as he spoke, “You are awake.”

 

Aramis returned the smile. “So it would appear. Our friend makes a wonderful bed warmer but his snoring rivals that of a bear.”

 

Athos nodded, remembering fondly the many nights they had spent together when the wine helped to not only keep the nightmares at bay, but helped to overcome Porthos’ loud snoring.

 

“Do you feel up to eating something?” Athos asked carefully.

 

Aramis considered the question, finally nodding, “I’m not certain that it will stay down but I’d like to at least try.”

 

At his words, Athos leaned forward and woke Porthos since he needed the larger man to move before they could get Aramis out of bed. Porthos shared Athos’ pleasure at seeing his friend awake and feeling like he could eat something, and with a man on each side supporting him, Aramis made his way to a seat at the kitchen table. Their perceptive host had made Aramis some sweet tea, made from herbs that she swore would help settle his stomach. Aramis sipped it gratefully while the other men ate, and was pleasantly surprised to find that he did feel better, even well enough to attempt a cup of broth. After consuming it, the three men sat in the relative peace of the kitchen, the old woman having left them for a while to tend her garden.

 

It was Porthos who broke the silence. “So, what do we do now?”

 

Athos had been considering the same since he awoke and now filled in his two friends on their plan of action. “I’ve sent a message to Treville, via the Three Crowns, with everything that d’Artagnan knows so far. It includes our location and the location of the bandits’ camp, which is hopefully where they’ll be after finding us gone. The boy thought he could reach Paris in two days’ time, and Treville will need an additional two or three to reach us and d’Artagnan. Assuming our kind hosts will allow us to stay, that will give us four or five days to recover from our wounds and rejoin our brothers for the attack on the thieves’ camp.”

 

“And d’Artagnan?” Aramis prompted.

 

“He will be alright and waiting for us when we arrive,” Athos stated confidently.

 

Sensing the decision had been made, Aramis looked at the state of his two brothers. “If we are to be fit enough to help out, then I need to have a look at your shoulder, Porthos, and your arm, Athos.” While neither man wanted Aramis to overexert himself, the fact that he was concerned about them was a good sign, signalling that their friend was also on his way to healing.

 

Over the next few days, Aramis discovered that their host, Madame Toutain, was not only a wonderful cook but an accomplished herbalist. With her help he had prepared a poultice that brought down the swelling of Porthos’ shoulder enough that it could be relocated, and prepared a salve that prevented his and Athos’ wounds from becoming infected. He still battled bouts of dizziness and required frequent rest, but Athos and Porthos both felt well enough that they were able to help the couple with work around the farm.

 

It was mid-day on their fourth day when Aramis’ sharp eyes spotted a rider in the distance. He called to Athos and Porthos, both of whom had stayed close to the house in case they were needed. Uncertain of who was approaching, Porthos and Athos reached for their pistols, while Aramis sat on a bench outside the small house with a harquebus across his lap. It was Aramis again who indicated to his friends to lower their weapons, having spotted the brilliant blue of the Musketeer cloak waving behind the fast-approaching rider. Within minutes, their brother Fouquet had arrived explaining that he had been sent to collect them so they could rejoin the rest of the soldiers in town, in advance of their march on the bandits’ location. Thirty minutes later, all four men were on horseback, having said their good-byes to their hosts and leaving a generous amount of coin in gratitude for the hospitality and kindness they’d received. As they spurred the horses into a trot, Athos sent a silent prayer that d’Artagnan would still be well upon their arrival.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's commented or following this story.

* * *

The night had been a difficult one for d’Artagnan, plagued by nightmares over his worry for his friends and the pain that seemed to emanate from all over and especially from his injured side. As the sun rose, the young man finally gave up the pretense of sleeping and pushed himself up to a sitting position on the cot, noting that he was still the lone occupant of the tent. Now that he was upright, he felt more keenly the soreness from the previous day’s fight and the burn of the cut on his side. Lifting his shirt gingerly, he noticed how red the skin was around the stitches he’d placed and he resolved to find more wine so that he could clean and redress the wound.

 

Before he could don his boots and stand, a face peered into the tent. “Andre’s asking for you.” Jaubert informed him.

 

Sighing tiredly, d’Artagnan nodded to the man and reached forward to pull his boots to him, an action that sent another stab of pain through his side. He exited the tent and looked around for Andre, spotting him at the table talking with Pasquale. Steeling himself, he walked as casually as his tired body would allow, not willing to show any weakness in front of these men. When he arrived at the table, Pasquale moved away, and d’Artagnan took a seat on the same bench as Andre, enabling him to rest his back against the table and look out at the rest of the camp.

 

Andre sat silently, not looking at the man next to him, and the Gascon had to force himself to stay still, belying the anxiety that now roiled in his stomach. “Thought Blanchard and Vidal might have joined us by now,” Andre commented and d’Artagnan remained silent while he waited for the other man to continue. “Do you find it odd that two bound men and one who was insensible could overpower three fit men…with weapons, no less?”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry at the man’s questions.

 

“Did you know that I married?” Andre asked. The Gascon’s head turned sharply at the change of topic. “She was a lovely girl from a family about an hour’s ride outside of Paris. We were introduced by her brother.” Still d’Artagnan didn’t know how to respond. “The winters out here can be harsh and we’ve had many years when we barely had enough food to survive.” The Gascon nodded, having experienced many lean years on the farm himself. “The year she passed, we’d run out of food in March. It was rumoured that the King would send supplies since so many were going hungry, but he never did. When the fever came, she was too weak to fight it.”

 

Turning sideways so he could face the other man, d’Artagnan’s face held a look of sorrow as he said, “I’m sorry.”

 

Andre nodded. “Despite the fact that Marie has passed, I remain close to her family.” d’Artagnan again noted the change in direction their conversation seemed to be going. “They don’t have much, but my brother in law has been particularly supportive. Imagine my surprise when he showed up the other day to inform me that we have a spy in our midst?” Andre turned dark eyes on the young man beside him.

 

As d’Artagnan processed the meaning of the other man’s words, he was grabbed from behind, Pasquale holding his upper arms and pulling him up off the bench. The Gascon turned his head to identify his attacker, and then looked back at Andre demanding, “What’s the meaning of this?”

 

“My brother in law wasn’t certain when he caught sight of you at the barn the other day, so we rode out to talk with one of his associates. The man recognized you right away from our description; said you had recently earned your commission after saving the life of the Captain who commands the Musketeers.” Andre stood, jabbing his finger at d’Artagnan’s chest. “Imagine my surprise,” he sneered.

 

Pasquale had been joined by Jaubert who pulled the Gascon’s arms behind his back, wrapping a rough piece of rope around them, starting at his wrists and ending just above his elbows; d’Artagnan winced at the uncomfortable position and the amount of strain it created on his wound. Pasquale then turned him around and gave him a shove to start walking. It was then that the young man noticed a new post that had been placed in the centre of the clearing. This post was apparently their destination and when they reached it, d’Artagnan’s back was pushed against it before he was tightly tied to it at his wrists and ankles.

 

Andre wandered over, seemingly unconcerned. “Did your Captain tell you what happened to the other Musketeers he sent?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded, “They died honorably in the service of their King,” he stated, head held up proudly.

 

“They died squealing like pigs,” Andre smiled wickedly at him, “and you’ll have the chance to experience it firsthand.”

* * *

d’Artagnan had thought that Andre would have him beaten or interrogated, but the clouds rolled in soon after he was tied up, bringing with them so much rain that the young man was certain the camp would soon be washed away. The cold weather that accompanied the deluge drove everyone inside, except for the few men who rotated frequently through guard duty around their camp. They left him tied to the post for the entire day and night, shivering against the damp and cold that now permeated his body. His legs had long since gone numb from being forced to stand in the same position, and the Gascon was certain that the ropes that held him were also the only reason he was still standing. While he remained aware, he took advantage of the ample supply of rain to quench his thirst, as he doubted he would be provided anything to eat or drink now that he’d been captured.

 

As the gray of day turned into the pitch black of night, d’Artagnan slipped into periods of restless sleep, punctuated by times when he struggled to determine if he was truly awake in the inky darkness. At some point during the night, the cold gave way to unrelenting heat and d’Artagnan’s brain was too confused to understand that the wound on his side had become infected, causing a fever. The periods of heat were short-lived, however, and the young man was plunged too soon back into a deep cold that seemed to emanate from deep within.

 

When he opened his bleary eyes to the first rays of the dawn, he was relieved to find that the rain had finally stopped, even though the chill of the night remained. d’Artagnan’s mind was fuzzy and it took several seconds of concentration to remember where he was and why he was so cold. He looked around what he could see of the camp, but he could see no one, and all of the tent flaps were still tightly closed. The young man took in a deep breath to steel himself for whatever the day would bring, prompting a harsh barking cough to escape from deep in his chest. As the force of the cough pulled on his side, the Gascon whimpered, grateful that none of the outlaws were there to hear him. He had survived a day and a night and was reminded of Athos’ parting words – _four days, five at the outside_. He just needed to hold on until then.

* * *

Treville was relieved beyond measure when Pinchon, one of his men, had brought a message that had been delivered to the Three Crowns Tavern. The messenger, a young man with a fine horse, had been honored to deliver the message that Athos had written and had rested infrequently, managing the trip to Paris in a day and a half. Pinchon had assured the boy of the King’s gratitude in the matter and had sent him away with a recommendation for a decent inn where he could rest along with a handful of coins, at which the young man beamed with pride.

 

Upon reading Athos’ message, Treville’s relief turned sour, finding out first that his three men were injured, second, that d’Artagnan had elected to remain with the band of outlaws and third, that there was a spy at Court. Fortunately, Athos’ directions regarding their location and the location of the bandits’ camp were precise and Treville wasted no time ordering Pinchon to assemble the men. In anticipation of d’Artagnan’s message, the Captain had kept the majority of his men close to the garrison, preparing arms and provisions that could be packed at a moment’s notice. So it came to be that, as a result of the Captain’s forethought, Treville and ten men rode through the garrison gates less than an hour after Pinchon had delivered Athos’ letter, allowing them a start of five or six hours before they’d be forced to rest overnight.

* * *

They waited until nearly mid-morning before paying him any attention, taking time to check first on the horses, and then to eat and dry out clothes that had sat wet for too long and refused to dry in the damp conditions. As d’Artagnan watched the camp slowly come to life, he wondered if he had the fortitude to withstand whatever Andre had planned for him. Unlike his brothers, he had not been tempered through years of skirmishes as a professional soldier nor had to survive on his own from a young age on the streets of Paris. Porthos would likely be ready by now to break free of his bindings, beating any man who came too near within an inch of his life. Aramis, the romantic of their group, would probably charm the men into releasing him or to at least leave him alone, while Athos would remain stoic and brave, proving that the Musketeers were a strong and courageous group who could not be broken through any means.

 

The thoughts of his friends twined about his brain along with feelings of fear and his own inadequacy, making him melancholy and challenging his conviction to endure what lay ahead. Perhaps it would be easier to die an honorable death, having warned Captain Treville of the bandits’ spy and provided the location of the camp; surely, no one could expect more. d’Artagnan’s head snapped up from his chest as he heard Athos’ voice, berating him for his thoughts of despair. Looking around he realized that he was still alone and the voice he had heard was in his head. Allowing his head to drop again, he heard Porthos’ voice next, raging at him to stand strong, followed by Aramis who reminded him that they were on their way. A part of the young man knew he must be hallucinating from his fever, but a part of him drew strength from the comments of his brothers and he resolved that he would last as long as possible and not die an easy death at Andre’s hands.

 

“Eh,” Andre yelled at the young man, “how did you enjoy your night?” The man guffawed loudly at his own joke as he walked to the centre of the clearing, followed by Pasquale. Stopping in front of d’Artagnan, the bandit leader looked at the young man appraisingly, noting the pallor of his skin, the fresh blotches of red on his side where his stitches had been torn, and the incessant shivering that racked his thin frame.

 

“They must be awfully desperate if they were willing to take in a runt like you,” he taunted. Determined not to give the man any satisfaction, the Gascon merely stared back, refusing to speak.

 

“I bet you’re thinking that I’m gonna ask you a whole bunch of questions and you’ll stand stoically, refusing to answer, biding your time until the Musketeers show up here,” Andre’s accuracy in giving voice to d’Artagnan’s thoughts rattled him and the outlaw laughed as he saw the shocked look on the Gascon’s face.

 

“That’s not how it’s gonna go. You see, I already know that the Musketeers have our location – they must. You wouldn’t have let the others ride off without it. And, it was a simple deduction, really, to assume we’d retreat here after holding the Musketeers at the barn.” Andre leaned forward, his stale breath brushing d’Artagnan’s face. “What you don’t realize is that you’re bait.”

 

A broad smile broke across the bandit’s face as the young man realized that his fate was to help trick his brothers into walking into a trap. “We’ve had some unusual acquisitions lately including a large supply of gunpowder. In fact, we spent the majority of yesterday and last night keeping everything dry.” Andre placed his hands on his hips. “You see, when your friends arrive they’ll see you, broken and bloodied, and just beggin’ to be set free. If you’re really as loyal to each other as they say, they’ll rush in to save you, but they won’t realize that we’ll have prepared a surprise for them.”

 

Andre clapped Pasquale on the back as the two roared with laughter, while d’Artagnan struggled to comprehend what he’d been told and come up with an appropriate retort.

 

“If you’re planning to plant explosives,” the young man stuttered, “you’ll blow yourselves up too.” His comment was a clear indication of how poorly his brain was currently functioning and Andre stepped forward to pat his cheek condescendingly.

 

“Oh, poppet, the only people you’ll be blowing up with will be your fellow Musketeer scum.”

 

Andre turned and walked away, waving a hand to Pasquale as a dazed d’Artagnan absorbed what he’d been told. Then the beating began and all rationale thought fled as the young man was thrust into agony, until mercifully, he fell unconscious and was left alone again.


	10. Chapter 10

The ride to town had passed agonizingly slowly, hindered by the need to walk the horses for long portions of time in deference to Aramis’ continuing recovery. Had he thought his brothers would listen, he would have urged them to leave him behind, but he knew that Athos and Porthos would never agree. Their pace returned them to town late in the afternoon and they were greeted warmly by Treville who stepped forward first to clasp Athos’ arm, then Porthos’ and Aramis’ as he examined them with a sharp eye.

 

“You made good speed,” he stated.

 

“As did you,” Athos replied.

 

A small smile graced the Captain’s face. “You chose your messenger well. He made the trip to Paris in under two days.”

 

“Yes, he and his grandmother both thought he might,” Athos said, sharing a knowing look with his two brothers at Madame Toutain’s pride in her grandson’s riding ability.

 

Athos’ tone turned serious as he asked, “How many men did you bring?”

 

“Ten. I was led to believe the bandits number approximately a dozen?”

 

Athos nodded. “I believe they will be well-armed and skilled, based on what we experienced.”

 

“Then let us rest so we will be ready in the morning for our attack,” Treville declared, placing a hand on Athos’ shoulder, intending to lead the man away from his horse.

 

“Captain,” Porthos interrupted, “the boy’s been with them for four days since we left. If they decided he had a part in our escape…” he trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought.

 

“I agree, Captain, it’s important that we finish this tonight,” Athos stated.

 

“But, you’re still recovering and tired from your journey. Look at Aramis,” the Captain pointed at Aramis who was leaning tiredly against his horse.

 

Straightening his shoulders and donning his most charming smile, Aramis countered, “I assure you Captain, I will rest much better once our younger brother has been reunited with us.”

 

Looking at the other two men’s faces, he could see the same conviction reflected there, so with a sigh he nodded and turned to address the rest of the men. “Mount up!”

* * *

Time passed in a haze for d’Artagnan, and in his few moments of lucidity he was aware of snippets that seemed both confusing and disconnected. He recalled moments when the pain returned and imagined that some of the bandits had taken a turn at beating him, only to be called off by Andre, which didn’t make any sense to him since Andre wanted him to suffer. He could see images of blurry shapes – men, his brain supplied – moving around the camp, seemingly jumping from location to location without any understanding of how they moved around so quickly. He remembered instances of men yelling to each other and horses whinnying, interspersed with long periods of silence, when all he could hear was the beat of his heart. He had no idea how much time had passed, thus losing even the reassuring knowledge of knowing when his brothers would arrive to save him.

 

His brothers! Through the fever, exhaustion, shivering and pain, one thought had planted itself firmly in his mind: _his brothers could not be allowed to save him – it wasn’t safe!_ d’Artagnan had long since forgotten Andre’s words and could not explain the source of the danger, but he knew that it was important that he stay awake and warn his brothers when they arrived. This thought, repeating endlessly through his befuddled mind, kept snapping him awake from his stupor, causing him to lift his head to listen for approaching horses and peer through blurry eyes for any sign of the Musketeers’ approach. When no sign appeared, the young man would doze off again, only to be startled into wakefulness when the anxiety he felt was strong enough to jolt him from his vacant state.

 

A sound broke through d’Artagnan’s foggy mind and he brought his head up as quickly as he was able, spurred on by the minor shock of adrenaline that entered his veins from his remembered his mission to keep his brothers safe and away from him. He squinted in an effort to clear his vision, staring at the entrance to the clearing. Thinking he could see the outline of a hat, he called out, “Stop!” The sound that emerged was a poor imitation of his normal voice, his throat and mouth dry as dust from the lack of water over the last three days. Coughing harshly, he tried again, “Stop!” This time the sound carried further and d’Artagnan heard a voice call in reply.

 

“d’Artagnan?” This disembodied voice seemed to float from the trees and as the Gascon watched, the hat moved a step closer.

 

“No!” he cried. The hat stopped and the young man slumped in relief.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you in danger?” the voice asked.

 

“No, you danger, not me,” the disoriented man mumbled to himself.

 

“d’Artagnan?” the voice called again.

 

Trying to find some saliva to wet his mouth, d’Artagnan called out, “Not safe…stay away.”

 

From where he stood, Athos traded confused looks with Porthos. The two man backed away to where Aramis was standing against a tree next to Treville.

 

“The boy’s actions make no sense,” the Captain observed.

 

“Mmm,” Athos considered. “Aramis, do you see anything here that causes you concern?”

 

The sharpshooter looked around carefully, retracing the path Athos had taken and looking for anything that seemed out of place. A normal man would have missed it, but Aramis was the best shooter in the garrison and his keen vision spotted what the other man had not.

 

“There,” he indicated. Nearly hidden against the brown dirt of the forest floor lay a black powder. Porthos followed its path, finding that it covered the trail leading into the clearing as well as the ground inside the camp, for as far as Porthos was able to see.

 

“Trap,” he whispered as he retraced his steps to where Aramis and Treville stood waiting. “It looks like they’ve laid gunpowder all over the ground in there.”

 

Athos turned to the Captain and spoke lowly, “There must be someone here watching; someone to ignite the powder.”

 

The Captain nodded and moved back to his men. In quiet tones, he ordered them to spread out around the clearing as if they were preparing to attack, but to look for someone hiding in the undergrowth instead. Athos moved back to his position at the entrance to the clearing and walked slowly inside. There he got his first look at the Gascon, who still hung limply suspended by his bindings to the post behind him. The boy’s head hung on his chest and Athos could see a stain of red covering his left side.

 

Forcing down the panic he felt at the sight, Athos called out to his protégé. “d’Artagnan, we are here to help you,” he said as he continued to move forward slowly, giving the other Musketeers the time they needed to ferret out their hidden attackers.

 

“d’Artagnan, can you hear me?” the older man tried again.

 

The older man watched as d’Artagnan’s head bobbed in an unsuccessful attempt to raise it. “d’Artagnan, you’re safe now – do you understand?”

 

The words prompted the young man to shake his head jerkily as he stood hunched over, head drooping over his chest. “We’ve come for you d’Artagnan, your brothers have come for you,” Athos called as he moved ever closer to his target.

 

At this, the Gascon’s head jerked up and Athos could see the panic and confusion on the boy’s face. “No, not safe,” the young man shook his head, “stay away.” The words were garbled and d’Artagnan’s voice croaked painfully, but he kept up a continuous stream that all focused on his intent to be left alone.

 

Now that Athos was closer, he could see that d’Artagnan’s eyes were unfocused as they rolled in his head. The young man’s clothes were torn in places and stained with dirt and blood, and the only color against the pale features of his face and neck were bruises that had blossomed in varying hues of purple and blue. Athos had to force down his feelings of fury and hatred towards the men who had done this to d’Artagnan as he continued his calm, even pace to the centre of the clearing. His steps were interrupted by a loud whistle, which he knew was Porthos’ way of telling him that they had found the hiding bandits. At the knowledge that the area was now safe, he crossed the last few feet separating him from d’Artagnan in a rush, only to stop again at the sight of the broken man.

 

Athos raised his hands and then paused, faltering, unsure how badly the boy was hurt and how he might react to Athos’ touch. “d’Artagnan,” Athos murmured softly, willing the boy to look at him. After several seconds, his wish was granted, but the reaction was not what he expected. Instead of relief or happiness at being rescued, the young man threw his head forward and barely missed hitting Athos in the face. As the older man took a step back, d’Artagnan continued to throw his body around, mumbling incoherently. Worried that the young man would hurt himself further, Athos stepped forward and threw his arms around the boy, resisting d’Artagnan’s efforts to free himself and holding the boy as steadily as he could. As d’Artagnan’s efforts exhausted him and his body stilled, Porthos appeared and showed Athos his knife. Athos nodded in understanding of Porthos’ intentions to cut the boy free and held tight as the young man’s weight was released from the post and onto Athos.

 

Aramis was there as soon as the Gascon was free, helping Athos to place him on the ground. Athos could not bear to break contact with his young protégé and he sat on his haunches next to the boy, holding his hand as Aramis conducted a quick examination of his patient. Aramis’ quiet voice startled Athos from his thoughts as he informed their leader, “We must make haste.” Aramis’ grim tone was enough for both men to understand the seriousness of d’Artagnan’s injuries.

 

Without being asked, Porthos offered to have the wagon prepared and Aramis went in search of medical supplies so that he might begin treatment on the young man while they travelled. Athos found himself alone again with the Gascon and ran his hand through the boy’s lank hair, at once grateful and frustrated by the boy’s lack of awareness. Aramis returned with a blanket and he motioned to the older man to sit the boy up so they could wrap it around his thin shoulders. By then Porthos had returned as well and he touched Athos shoulder to ask permission to carry the boy to the wagon. Athos hesitated a moment, then stood back to allow the larger man to place his arms beneath the boy’s back and legs, while Aramis lifted the boy’s head to rest against Porthos’ broad chest. The three men moved out of the clearing with their precious cargo and laid him carefully into the back of their wagon where a nest of blankets had already been prepared. As Aramis climbed into the back with d’Artagnan, Porthos tied the men’s horses to the back of the wagon.

 

Treville approached and looked inquiringly at Athos, asking “How is he?”

 

Aramis looked up to see Athos staring at the boy and answered on his behalf. “He been beaten and starved and is fighting a fever.” Aramis could see Athos wince at his words. “It’s important that we reach a safe haven so his wounds can be properly tended.”

 

The Captain nodded. “I’ve given Porthos directions to an inn in Orleans. Give the owner my name and I promise you’ll be provided with everything you need.” Treville made eye contact with each of the three men in turn. “Take as much time as you need and take care of him.”

 

With that, Porthos moved to sit at the front of the wagon as their driver, while Athos joined his friends in the back to assist Aramis. A light misting rain began to fall, mimicking the moods of the three men, as they cared for their fallen brother and transported him to safety.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's continuing to read and review this story. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

The trip to Orleans should have taken less than two hours, but the sun had descended before they had travelled very far, leaving Porthos to struggle with both the unfamiliar road and the need to avoid the frequent ruts which caused d’Artagnan to whimper in pain, despite the fact the he was deeply unconscious. Before they had lost the light, Aramis had briefly cleaned and dressed the infected wound on d’Artagnan’s side, but there was little else he could do until they reached Orleans. Looking up at the night sky, Aramis clasped the rosary around his neck, sending a quick prayer of thanks for the bright moon that now illuminated their path. His attention then shifted to Athos who sat with his back against the wagon, holding d’Artagnan against his chest. The wagon’s jostling had been difficult for the Gascon to bear so once Aramis was finished with the boy’s side, he had helped Athos manoeuver himself into a position where he could stabilize and comfort the boy during their journey. The older man now sat with one arm around the boy’s chest, while his other carded repetitively through his hair, an action that Aramis was sure brought as much comfort to Athos as it to the boy.

 

Four hours after they’d started out, Porthos tiredly drew the horses to a stop outside a small inn. He handed the reins to the stable boy without a word, and turned in his seat to look back at his friends. They were all weary from hours spent worrying about their youngest brother and yet the real work of tending to the young man was just beginning. In a well-practiced dance, Athos sorted their rooms, Aramis gathered the supplies they had brought with them and Porthos brought d’Artagnan inside and laid him gently on the bed. A knock at the door signalled the arrival of two young girls bearing hot and cold water, several bottles of wine and a basket of assorted food.

 

Aramis started undressing the boy immediately, Porthos helping to lift the boy’s upper body and hips to remove various items of clothing. When he lay only in his braies, the two men began to wash his body gently, Aramis focusing on his upper body while Porthos cleansed his legs and feet. As they worked, Athos stood watching them, stifling his horror at every new scratch and bruise that was revealed as the blood and dirt was washed away. Aramis noticed his reaction and comforted, “Apart from the wound on his side and the fever, he’s in remarkably good condition.”

 

It was difficult to know if Athos believed him as the older man turned his back to them and moved to look out the window instead. Porthos shared a knowing look with Aramis at the other man’s reaction – he would be blaming himself for the situation, regardless of the fact that it had been entirely outside of his control. They knew that over the next few days Athos’ wellbeing would be inextricably intertwined with the health of their young Gascon.

 

Aramis pulled out the torn stitches in d’Artagnan’s side, scrubbing the wound with great care to remove every bit of pus and debris he could find. As he worked, the young man’s brow grew damp and the occasional soft moan escaped him as his body protested what was being done to him. At d’Artagnan’s sounds of pain, Athos returned at the head of the bed, opposite Aramis. There he took a cool cloth and bathed the young man’s neck, shoulders and chest, offering soothing words of comfort while Aramis worked to place new stiches on the freshly cleaned cut. When Aramis had finished, he looked at Porthos, asking, “Have you found anything more that needs to be sewn?”

 

Porthos shook his head and Aramis released a large breath in relief. Having tended to the young man’s most obvious wound, Aramis began to examine d’Artagnan again, this time pressing his hands and fingers to the young man’s head and face, moving downwards to examine his arms, chest and stomach, eventually ending with the bottom of both feet. When he was finished, he motioned to Porthos, “Help me roll him to his side.”

 

The two men rolled him smoothly to expose the man’s unscarred back, marred only by deep bruising on his right lower back. Aramis tsked unhappily at the sight, “We’ll need to keep an eye on that. Might have hurt his kidneys.” Returning him onto his back, Aramis sat down again at the young man’s side to address his two friends.

 

“The infection and fever is worrisome and needs to be our first concern. I can collect some herbs in the morning to brew a tea that will help, but for tonight we’ll use cool clothes to keep it down. Two of his ribs, here,” he pointed above the bandaged wound, “are broken. He’ll be inclined to take shallow breaths to control the pain but we need to discourage that in order to keep his lungs clear. I doubt that our friends provided him with food or water and you can clearly see the results,” he stated, referring to the ease with which they could see the young man’s ribs. “Our first priority will be to get water into him, as much and as often as we can. That and proper rest should also help his kidneys heal.”

 

Athos placed a hand on the young man’s forehead, feeling the heat emanating there. “Is he in much pain?” The older man’s voice almost cracked as he asked and Porthos couldn’t help but lean over and place a hand on his thigh.

 

“No,” murmured Aramis, “I believe he is deeply unconscious, getting the rest he so badly needs.”

 

Athos nodded and looked at his weary companions. “There is food and wine and then you should sleep also. I’ll look after him tonight.”

 

Aramis and Porthos were unsurprised and moved to follow his orders without complaint. Half an hour later they had both retired to their rooms, leaving Athos sitting beside the Gascon’s bed with a bottle of wine and a number of candles scattered around the room, providing a sense of warmth to chase away the gloom of the night. 

* * *

Porthos shook his friend’s shoulder gently, knowing that the man was still suffering from the effects of his head wound and that yesterday’s events would have exhausted even a fit man, let alone one who was recovering from a serious injury. His efforts were rewarded when Aramis opened his eyes, shifting his head to one side to see daylight through the window.

 

“Morning already?” he asked as he stretched.

 

“Maybe a litter later than morning, but I know how you need your beauty sleep,” Porthos teased.

 

Realizing that his friend had allowed him to sleep late, he sat up, asking urgently, “How is d’Artagnan?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Porthos placed a hand on Aramis’ chest as the man made to stand, “he’s still sleeping. Athos isn’t certain, but he thinks the wound doesn’t look as red today and that his fever may be a bit better.”

 

Athos bowed his head in relief as he sat on the bed. Looking up at Porthos he asked with a glint of amusement, “In that case, where’s my breakfast?”

 

Porthos grinned widely as he threw Aramis’ shirt at him. “Come on then, we’ll get something to eat and then bring something back for Athos. Then, we’ll find some way force him to sleep for a few hours before we end up with two patients on our hands.”

* * *

Once they had eaten, Porthos had taken food back for Athos while Aramis went in search of various healing herbs. When he returned to d’Artagnan’s room he was pleased to find that Porthos had taken Athos’ place and that Athos was nowhere in sight.

 

“How did you manage it?” he asked as he set down his purchases.

 

Porthos grunted, “Nearly had to threaten to beat him before he’d leave. I think when the chair jumped up and tripped him he finally realized that he’d had enough and would be of no use in his current state.

 

Aramis nodded approvingly. “I managed to find several things that will help.” He placed a hand of d’Artagnan’s brow and cheek and echoed Athos’ assessment that the fever seemed to be dropping. “Do you know if he’s taken any water?”

 

Porthos shook his head. “Then that needs to be the first thing we address.” Aramis leaned over the young man and shook him gently, watching for any signs of awareness. When that didn’t work, he pinched the Gascon’s earlobe and was rewarded by a groan.

 

“d’Artagnan, open your eyes for us,” Porthos coaxed a hand on the boy’s cheek. Another groan followed by the fluttering of eyelids and a moment later they could just make out the boys hazel eyes beneath partly open lids. As they watched him, the Gascon’s eyes moved lazily, obviously having difficulty focusing.

 

Aramis leaned forward and placed a hand behind d’Artagnan’s head, lifting it slightly so he could drink from the cup that was brought to his lips. At first the young man seemed unaware of the water, but as his body realized its extreme thirst, he began to drink greedily until the cup was pulled away from his lips. “Slowly, d’Artagnan, otherwise it won’t stay down.”

 

Aramis lowered the boy’s head back onto the pillow, watching as the Gascon’s eyes closed as soon as he was lying flat. Porthos looked at him worriedly, “He didn’t seem to recognize us at all. Is that normal?”

 

Aramis shrugged. “Who’s to say what’s normal when it comes to matters of medicine. For now let’s take comfort in the fact that we were able to wake him and get him to drink.” He turned away and brought his purchases over to the table. “I’m going to make a few things I think will help,” he said, pointing to his bag. When he was finished, Aramis had ground herbs and water together into a thick paste which he applied to the wound on d’Artagnan’s side. Next, he poured boiling water over several ingredients, indicating that they needed to get the young man to drink the cup’s contents whenever he awoke. Lastly, he created a salve that he used on d’Artagnan’s worst bruises, explaining to Porthos that it would help to alleviate the pain.

 

As he finished, Athos strode through the door, hair in disarray and deep circles still firmly entrenched under his eyes; the few hours of sleep had done little to overcome the stress of the last several days. Athos nodded politely in greeting to his friends, noting the mortar and pestle on the table which suggested that Aramis had been creative.

 

“I see that you’ve not been idle while I slept,” he said, indicating Aramis’ supplied.

 

“In lieu of pursuing the fairer sex, this seemed an adequate use of my time and talents,” Aramis responded cheekily.

 

Porthos was pleased to see a smile tugging at Athos’ lips, a sight that he had been concerned might not be possible given the circumstances. Athos walked to the bed and was pleased to see d’Artagnan resting more comfortably, the ever present sheen of fever sweat absent from his forehead. “Has his fever broken,” he asked Porthos.

 

“No, but it seems to be better,” Porthos offered.

 

Athos seemed uncertain and placed his hand on the young man’s cheek, only to find it hot and dry. He looked over at Aramis, “He’s not sweating.”

 

Aramis strode over to fill a cup with water and handed it to Athos, “He’s not drinking enough, that’s why. If we don’t get more fluids into him soon, things will get much worse.”

 

Between the three men, they managed to rouse the Gascon enough to prop him up and get him to drink the cup of water as well as the tea that Aramis had brewed. Other than swallowing what was offered, the young man showed no other signs of awareness and returned to sleep as soon as he was allowed.

 

“We need to wake him every half hour to drink, “Aramis stated, “and every hour after that once he has need of the chamber pot.”

 

“Porthos,” Athos started, “you were the first one awake this morning. Why don’t you check on the horses and then go eat and sleep. I have a feeling that our young friend isn’t quite done making our lives difficult.”

 

Porthos nodded wearily, massaging his still tender shoulder as he felt an uncomfortabe twinge of pain. None of them had slept well over the past week and their injuries had only depleted their reserves further. While they all wanted to stay close the Gascon’s side, Porthos saw the wisdom in Athos’ words and moved to do as he suggested.

 

Aramis moved a chair closer to the bed, placing his feet near the bottom of it, and leaning back with his eyes closed. “Wake me if you need anything.”

 

Athos looked at the sleeping man affectionately, incredibly grateful at the family he had found among these men – even the one who was now causing him such concern. He dipped a cloth in the water bucket and wrung it out, placing it on d’Artagnan’s forehead. A quiet sigh escaped the Gascon, eliciting a slight upward turn of Athos’ lips in return. It was at times like these that Athos was reminded of the hours he’d spent at his brother’s side when the young man was sick. When that happened, Thomas had wanted nothing more than the company of his older brother to read him stories and lie next to him as he slept, and Athos had been happy to oblige. It brought him comfort that he was the one caring for his brother, and that he was the only one who could manage to get the boy to eat, and then rest, once he was on the mend, traits that Thomas and d’Artagnan seemed to share. Taking the cloth from d’Artagnan’s head, he wet it again and replaced it, earning another soft murmur of appreciation.


	12. Chapter 12

Athos and Aramis had stayed at d’Artagnan’s side well into the night, both of them unwilling to leave the young man while his health was still so poor. The men had diligently woken the boy and forced him to drink until at last he’d been coherent enough to express his need for the chamber pot. While this marked a significant improvement in his physical health, Athos was less optimistic about his mental state; in all of their interactions, d’Artagnan had not once seemed to recognize his brothers nor cared enough to ask where he was or what had happened. Aramis assured him that the boy had experienced a great trauma and that as his physical health improved, his mind would soon follow, but Athos remained uncertain.

 

Porthos rejoined them in the evening, forcing food upon his two friends, and he and Aramis sat sharing stories and wine well past the midnight hour. They had made Athos leave hours earlier, but as Aramis made his way to his room he could still see the flicker of candlelight from under the door and knew that his friend was still awake. Hesitating for a moment, he turned away from Athos’ door and went to his own, resolving to speak with Porthos in the morning so they could tackle Athos’ behaviour together.

 

The following morning brought encouraging news along with sunshine; d’Artagnan had awoken on his own and requested water. It wasn’t much but it was a start and by that evening d’Artagnan opened his eyes to find his three friends at his bedside and startled them all by sitting up quickly in bed before falling back due to his injured side.

 

“d’Artagnan, breathe,” a voice reminded him. He could feel a warm hand pushing his bangs back from his face, and then it simply rested on the top of his head. The Gascon struggled with the pain, doing his best to do as the voice asked and to remember how he came to be in this state in the first place. It was a massive challenge to open his eyes, but he was determined to accomplish the task, seeing first Athos’ frowning face, followed by Porthos’ infectious grin, and finally Aramis’ gentle smiling concern.

 

“Better?” Aramis asked. d’Artagnan nodded, still trying to make sense of his scattered memories of the past week.

 

“Wha?” he started, only to break off coughing, causing his side to flare in pain. His hand went to the source of the pain, but was caught by someone’s hand before he could reach it. When the fit had passed, he found a cup of water at his lips and he drank gratefully as Athos supported his head.

 

He tried again, “What happened?”

 

Porthos chuckled, “We were kind of hoping you could tell us.”

 

d’Artagnan glanced warily at the other two and saw Porthos’ statement echoed in the other men’s faces. “I’m not sure,” he began, “the last thing I remember…”

 

He trailed off. The last thing he remembered was being confronted by Andre about being a Musketeer. Images assaulted him; flashes of being beaten by Pasquale and then snippets of rain and dark, feelings of heat and cold. “Andre, he figured out who I was.”

 

Porthos gripped the boy’s ankle asking, “What it because you helped us escape?”

 

“No,” he looked at the guilt in Porthos’ eyes and reaffirmed again, “no, it happened before that.”

 

The three men exchanged confused looks. “The man who showed up earlier,” d’Artagnan struggled to recall his name, “Marchand. He recognized me from Paris. I think he’s Andre’s brother in law and the one who’s been helping him figure out when and where to attack.”

 

Athos leaned back considering the information d’Artagnan had just shared. “Do you know anything more of this man?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head. “No, but surely you can get one of the bandits to identify him?” He watched his brothers’ reactions and could see that there was something he was missing. “Are they all dead?” he asked.

 

“Sadly, no,” Aramis replied. “By the time we arrived, they were all gone,” he said regretfully.

 

“Well, all but one who was left behind to ignite the gunpowder,” Porthos corrected.

 

“The gunpowder!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “Is everyone alright?”

 

Athos placed a hand on the young man’s chest. “Be calm, everyone is fine. Aramis’ keen eyes were able to spot it scattered all around the clearing and Porthos captured the man before he was able to set it alight.”

 

d’Artagnan relaxed, relieved that no one had been hurt. “But you said everyone else was gone?” he questioned.

 

Porthos nodded. “The cowards didn’t want to face us. Left their man there instead with you as their bait, hoping we’d be stupid enough to go charging in. Shows how little he knows about Musketeers.”

 

“That’s what he called me as well,” the Gascon stated, “bait.”

 

Aramis could sense the changing mood in the room as his brothers contemplated how callously d’Artagnan had been treated. “Well, I think that’s quite enough excitement for one night. d’Artagnan, I’d like to check over the wound on your side. While I do that, could one of you see if we can get some broth for the lad and I’ll need some fresh water as well.” Trusting that his friends would do as they’d been asked, he set about removing the bandage from the young man’s side.

 

“How did you come about this wound? There were some torn stitches in it, but I found it unusual that the bandits would harm you and then tend to you.”

 

The Gascon dipped his head in response to Aramis’ question, mumbling a soft reply.

 

“Hmm, speak up, what did you say?”

 

“I did it,” d’Artagnan repeated.

 

Aramis’ head shot up to look at him incredulously. “You did it? But why?”

 

“There was so much blood on the ground from Vidal and there wasn’t enough time to gather dirt to cover it,” the Gascon shrugged helplessly, “I couldn’t think of any other way of explaining the bloodstain given the time I had before Andre showed up.”

 

“So you inflicted this terrible wound on yourself?” Aramis reiterated, holding the young man’s wrist.

 

d’Artagnan nodded and Aramis took a deep breath. “No one would accuse you of lacking in bravery but perhaps we can find another way in the future that involves less blood spilling on your part, and more heroic acts that will impress the ladies, hmm?”

 

d’Artagnan gave him a grateful look and Aramis gave his wrist another squeeze before releasing it. “You may want to keep this information to yourself for a bit.” The Gascon looked at him questioningly. “How do you think Athos will react if he learns of your self-sacrificing act?”

 

“I’m not sure which of us will be in greater danger – me for having cut myself or the bandits for having placed me into the position in the first place.”

 

“Exactly,” Aramis agreed. He had finished cleaning the boy’s wound as they’d talked and now rubbed a salve onto it before bandaging it. “It’s healing well now, but you also have two broken ribs on that side which will be painful for many weeks.”

 

The young man grimaced at Aramis’ words, recalling well the last time he’d broken ribs. “You’ll need to be careful moving around and breathe deeply so your lungs stay clear.” d’Artagnan nodded, understanding the dangers that broken ribs produced.

 

Porthos and Athos had entered the room near the end of their conversation and the large man stepped forward to hand d’Artagnan a cup of broth. “Drink it all,” he ordered. “Need to put some meat back on those bones or you won’t be able to hold a sword.” The smile that accompanied his order removed any sting from his words.

 

“I’ve been thinking,” started Athos.

 

“As you are wont to do,” interrupted Aramis, smiling.

 

Athos gave him an annoyed look before continuing. “We need to return to the garrison as soon as we can and inform the Captain about Marchand’s involvement. It’s possible that we can catch him and use him find Andre and the rest of his men.”

 

d’Artagnan was nodding, but Athos was looking at Aramis to see how his suggestion of leaving was sitting with the man.

 

“He stays in the wagon,” Aramis began, “and we rest often.” Athos was nodding. “And if I feel at any time that his health is in jeopardy, we find a place to stop and you will ride on without us.”

 

d’Artagnan finally realized that he was listening to Aramis negotiate the terms under which he’d be allowed to make the journey and drew a breath to protest when he caught Porthos’ eye. The large man brought a finger to his lips and gave a quick shake of his head, recommending silence. When it seemed clear that Athos had indeed gotten permission for them to travel the following day, the Gascon swallowed his protests and decided to follow Porthos’ advice.

 

Having made their decision, Athos stated, “Tomorrow will be a long day for all of us. Get some rest – we leave at first light.”

* * *

d’Artagnan’s earlier wakefulness had been a balm to the three men tending to him and they felt like a weight had been lifted from their shoulders as they retired. Despite the young man’s improvement, his fever had not yet broken and he was still tired and weak from his ordeal, so Athos was unwilling to leave him alone for the night. Porthos and Aramis had teased him about mothering the boy, but they both understood the need to keep him close. Athos settled into the chair next to d’Artagnan’s bed, the scraping of the chair legs on the floor, waking the Gascon from his doze.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking blearily at his mentor.

 

“Apologies for disturbing you. I was just repositioning the chair next to the bed.”

 

“Why?” the young man peered up at him.

 

Athos was at a loss and thought for a moment that the young man was experiencing a relapse. He leaned forward to check d’Artagnan’s fever when the question was repeated.

 

“Why,” d’Artagnan wondered, “are you sitting on the chair instead of getting into bed?”

 

For a well-educated man like Athos, it was rare to be at a loss for words, but the Gascon’s question had completely disarmed him. “Come on then,” d’Artagnan indicated one side of the bed, attempting to shuffle further over to make more room.

 

Athos’ hand on his chest stilled the movement. “There’s more than enough room, I assure you.”

 

The Gascon grunted in acknowledgement, eyes trying to close of their own volition, but Athos could see that he was stubbornly fighting his body’s need for sleep until Athos laid down. With an exasperated sigh, the older man sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots, laying down next to the young man. He heard a sign of approval from d’Artagnan and turned his head to see the boy’s eyes closed and a relaxed expression on his face. He was reminded again of how much this exceptional young man reminded him of Thomas and how much richer his life was because of his presence.

* * *

Morning found the three Musketeers up at the crack of dawn, preparing the horses and wagon, and packing their belongings and provisions for the trip to Paris. They left d'Artagnan sleeping until they were almost ready to depart, at which time Aramis woke the boy to check his condition. The Gascon was slow to wake and Aramis took advantage of his befuddled state by taking the opportunity to place a hand on his brow to check his fever. The heat he found there caused him to frown; although the young man's fever was much improved, he had still been unable to shake it completely and Aramis worried that it would rise again from the stress of travelling. Looking at the boy's face he found two hazel eyes staring at him in amusement and realized he'd had his hand on the man's forehead longer than was strictly necessary. With an embarrassed smile he pulled it back quickly and moved to examine the boy's side. "How are you feeling this morning?" With deft fingers he pressed along the wound, looking for signs of infection and was pleased to find none. He glanced at d'Artagnan to see his reaction to the touch and was pleased again to see little indication of pain at the pressure he exerted on the healing cut.

 

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes fondly at the other man's actions as he answered, "I feel fine, Aramis."

 

"Mmm," was Aramis' noncommittal reply. He pressed next on the boy's healing ribs, noting the barely contained wince and sharply drawn breathe in response to the pain he'd caused. "Sorry," he apologized, placing a warm hand on the boy's as he breathed through the pain.

 

When he'd caught his breath, d'Artagnan assured him, "S'alright, just caught me a bit off guard."

 

This elicited another "hmm" from the other man. "If I help you, do you think you can turn to your side so I can examine your back?" The young man nodded and Aramis rolled him gently onto his uninjured side revealing the dark bruising along his lower back. Touching his fingers to it softly, he could feel d'Artagnan tense at his touch and heard a gasp when he found a particularly tender spot. "I have some salve that will help this heal," he told the young man as he reached for his bag of supplies and proceeded to rub the ointment over the area.

 

By the time he was finished and helped d'Artagnan settle onto his back, the young man was sweating and breathing heavily with the pain he'd endured. Athos arrived at that moment to witness the Gascon's pale expression and noted the frown on the medic's face. His questioning look had Aramis rising and moving to grasp the older man's arm to talk to him outside of the room.

 

"Is he alright?" Athos immediately questioned.

 

Keeping his hand on the other man's arm, Aramis assured him, "He's no worse than before, but you must remember, he's still quite ill."

 

"Is it safe for him to travel?"

 

Aramis answered slowly, picking his words carefully. "My biggest concerns are his fever and pain. We all know from past experience that the boy won't tell us when he's feeling poorly so I'll ride in the wagon with him to keep an eye on both, ensuring the he has ample time to rest before either becomes unmanageable."

 

Athos nodded uncertainly, "You could stay here," he started, but Aramis cut him off.

 

"Athos, we both know that the boy wouldn't want to be left behind any more than you want to leave him," he smiled. "I promise to watch him closely and advise you at the first signs for concern."

 

Athos placed his hand on Aramis' arm and squeezed it in thanks for the other man's insight and understanding. Removing his hand, he was all business again as he said, "We have everything ready outside. Shall we collect our young Gascon and depart?"

 

Aramis led the way back into the room where their younger brother had managed to pull on a shirt that Athos had loaned him, since his was a total loss after being covered in blood and dirt for several days. He was now standing and struggling to figure out how to pull on his breeches and he looked up ruefully at the two men, noticing their amusement at his situation.

 

Sighing, he spoke softly, "A little help, please." Knowing how difficult it was for d'Artagnan to ask for help, Athos walked over without a word and pushed him to sit on the bed. Taking the breeches from the young man, Athos lifted first one foot and then the other into the pant legs before helping the boy to stand again so he could pull the breeches up to his waist and lace them up. Retrieving the boy's boots, he again helped the other man to sit as he pulled the boots onto his feet. When he was done the Gascon smiled at him gratefully and Athos couldn’t help but offer a smile in return. Clasping the boy's neck he asked quietly, "Are you certain you are fit enough?"

 

Even though he knew what the answer would be, he had to ask, and was unsurprised by d'Artagnan's nod. Nodding in return, he rose and helped the boy to stand, pulling one arm over his shoulder before the Gascon could protest. They made their way outside where Porthos waited, throwing d'Artagnan a large grin at seeing him out of bed. As Athos settled the young man into the wagon, Porthos flashed Aramis a questioning look to ask if the lad was really alright to travel, which Aramis responded to with a slight dip of his head. Seemingly satisfied by the answer, Porthos climbed once again into the driver's seat while Aramis joined d'Artagnan in the back of the wagon. This time Athos would ride alongside on his own horse in order to scout the road ahead, and he and Porthos would take turns driving the wagon.

 

Aramis leaned over the Gascon, ensuring he was comfortably settled and placing a blanket over him, earning a fond look of irritation. "I worked far too hard nursing you back to health to allow you to undo it now," Aramis responded.

 

"Fine, I'll do my best to be a good patient," d'Artagnan told him.

 

"I was hoping you might say that. Now, being a good patient means letting me know immediately if you start feeling poorly. Are we agreed?"

 

"Agreed."

 

"Good." Aramis looked at Porthos, "We're ready."

 

With that, Porthos flicked the reins while Athos pressed his heels into his horse's side and they began their journey back to Paris.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, leave kudos and comment - totally makes my day! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

As the three brothers had discussed, they kept to the better maintained roads, which offered a smoother ride for the wagon’s passengers, and stopped often to minimize the strain of travelling on their youngest. Unsurprisingly, d’Artagnan didn’t offer a word of protest while they were in motion, but the other men could see how grateful he was for every stop they made along the way. Fortunately, he spent a great deal of time sleeping, until the pain in his back or side woke him, leaving him struggling to find a position that was even remotely comfortable. It was usually soon after this that Aramis would give either Athos or Porthos a look that indicated a need to stop. Aramis noted that after the first two times that this happened, d’Artagnan intentionally tried to hide how he was feeling and suffered far longer than he needed to. This earned the young man a scolding from Aramis that had his ears burning and his face turning red. Despite this, the three men were still uncertain that the Gascon would tell them when he wasn’t well so at each of Aramis’ looks, one of the three would name an excuse for needing to stop.

 

They intentionally kept their days on the road shorter than they might otherwise, stopping by mid-afternoon or early evening at whatever inn happened to be nearby at the time. d’Artagnan had developed a wet cough during the afternoon of their first day, his fever spiking, and Aramis cautioned that he should not be sleeping in outside in the cool evening air. In truth, the opportunity to sleep in real beds did them all good and with Aramis’ care and attention, the Gascon was continuing to tolerate the journey well, although his cough remained.

 

On their third day, late afternoon found them still two hours outside of Paris, debating whether they should finish the trip. d’Artagnan, having had enough coddling to last a lifetime, finally interrupted the discussion amongst his brothers and threatened to get onto one of the horses and ride the rest of the way if they didn’t get the wagon moving again so they could get home.

 

Porthos had looked at him with a glint of mischief in his eyes, saying, “Lad, we’ll just pick you up and load you back into the wagon once you fall off your horse.” Athos and Aramis had found the comment incredibly amusing, but d’Artagnan’s threat had the desired effect of getting the group moving again towards Paris. When they finally passed through the garrison gate, they breathed a collective sigh of relief at finally being home. Porthos and Aramis helped the Gascon out of the wagon and took him to his room at the barracks, while Athos directly presented himself to Captain Treville to report.

 

The Captain looked up in obvious pleasure as his Lieutenant entered, looking no worse for wear than the last time they’d parted. Treville came out from behind his desk and clasped Athos’ arm warmly, pouring them both glasses of brandy before hearing Athos’ report.

 

“First and foremost, how is d’Artagnan?” the Captain queried.

 

Athos inclined his head slightly, “That depends on whether you choose to listen to his assessment of his health or Aramis’.” Treville chuckled knowing well how these four men, Athos included, tended to downplay their injuries. “Aramis agrees that he is improving, but the trip was not easy. His broken ribs and bruised back made the journey uncomfortable and he still suffers from a low fever. Although he would likely disagree, d’Artagnan really needs several days of bed rest and good food to recover fully.”

 

Treville nodded in acknowledgement, “Take the next week – all of you.” He understood that while the other men had most likely healed from their own injuries, their diligent presence would be required to keep the young man from overexerting himself. “Was d’Artagnan able to shed any more light on the bandits’ whereabouts or the identity of our spy?”

 

Athos sipped his brandy, nodding. “d’Artagnan told us that he was recognized by a man named Marchand. He believes this man to be the brother in law of their leader, Andre, and indicated that it was Marchand who recognized him as a Musketeer.”

 

Treville frowned, concentrating, “I’m not aware of anyone named Marchand but there are so many minor nobles and others seeking the attention of the King that it’s hard to know them all. I’ll bring this information to the Cardinal and the King and see if they or anyone close to them can identify this man. And what of Andre?”

 

“Apparently he told d’Artagnan of his late wife, Marie, whose family is located an hour’s ride outside of Paris. I believe it’s reasonable to believe that he may have made his way to their farm or that he is hiding in Paris, under the protection of this Marchand.”

 

“I’ll send men in the morning to visit the farms within an hour’s ride and see if we’re able to learn anything more. Anything else?”

 

Athos shook his head.

 

“Then go get something to eat and rest.” Athos emptied his glass and placed it on the Captain’s desk. “Remember, I don’t want to see you for the next week,” he called after the man as he exited.

 

Athos made his way to d’Artagnan’s room after speaking with the Captain and was pleased to find a small fire to ward away the chill and the young Gascon already in bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. Athos and Porthos were talking animatedly, between mouthfuls of food, about a young woman who had been smitten by Porthos, while d’Artagnan laid quietly, heavy-lidded, soaking in the comfort of being back. Both men looked up at Athos’ arrival, who motioned with his head toward the young man who was obviously fighting to stay awake.

 

Porthos looked over and decided, “Must be time for us to let you get some rest, lad.”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan seemed panicked. In a calmer voice he said, “It’s alright, you can stay.”

 

They had all experienced nightmares over the years and found comfort in each other’s presence, so Porthos retook his seat and pulled out a chair for Athos, who nodded his thanks. Porthos began sharing another tale that Athos recognized from some of their previous nights together and he sat comfortably listening, sipping a glass of wine, watching as their young charge fell asleep.

 

“Think he’ll be alright?” Porthos asked once it was clear that d’Artagnan was no longer awake.

 

“Physically he’s doing well,” Aramis pointed out.

 

“Yeah, but we all know how much easier it is to heal from the physical wounds than the emotional ones,” Porthos commented. Looking at Athos, he asked, “Do you want us to stay?”

 

Athos shook his head. “I think the ladies of Paris have been too long deprived of Aramis’ charms, while the Red Guards have been too long attached to their coin. Take the night for yourselves to relax. Treville’s given us the week and I’m confident that our young Gascon will put all our patience to the test during that time.”

 

The two men finished their drinks and donned their doublets and hats, wishing Athos a good night. When they were gone, Athos moved his chair next to the bed and sat waiting for any signs of distress from the sleeping man. By the time that he recognized the whimpers for what they were, Athos had finished his second bottle of wine and fallen asleep in his chair. Watching the Gascon, he waited to see if the man would settle or if he needed to intervene. The man’s whimpers continued and his brow furrowed, followed by a louder cry of distress. Deciding that he’d seen enough, Athos placed one hand on the young man’s hair and the other on his chest, whispering words of comfort. In some instances, this had been sufficient to calm the boy enough so that he returned to sleep, but apparently tonight was not one of those times.

 

With a jerk of his upper body, d’Artagnan startled awake. Still confused and having trouble distinguishing dream from reality, he heaved a gulping breath, setting off a coughing fi that brought tears to his eyes. Finally recovering himself enough to take a proper breath, he gratefully accepted the drink that Athos’ held to his lips, taking a couple small sips before pulling away.

 

“Thanks,” he said to his mentor once he’d laid back against the pillows behind him.

 

“No thanks is necessary,” Athos replied. “Nightmare?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded his head shakily, but offered nothing more.

 

“It is not unexpected that the events of the last several weeks would disturb your dreams,” he advised. “I’m certain that these events will give all of us some sleepless nights.”

 

d’Artagnan looked up at this last comment, “But, you all seem to handle these things so well.”

 

“We all cope in our own ways,” the older man admitted. “Aramis in the welcoming arms of a beautiful woman, Porthos in cheating men out of their coin, and me,” he trailed off, lifting his glass of wine.

 

The Gascon smiled ruefully. “I’m not really that interested in wenching and Porthos claims I’m a terrible card player. That only leaves wine but I don’t hold it very well.”

 

“There is another solution,” Athos pointed out, “you could talk with me, or any one of us, about what happened.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed to be considering his words and Athos stayed silent, seeing the turmoil on the young man’s face as he picked at his blanket and bit his lip, trying to decide what, if anything, he should share. In a small voice, he stated, “I wasn’t certain I would live to see any of you again. I thought it might be better to die quickly than find out that I wasn’t strong enough to bear whatever Andre had planned for me.”

 

The comment terrified Athos but he forced himself to remain calm and quiet, hoping the boy would continue.

 

“They didn’t ask me any questions, did you know that?” d’Artagnan’s tone indicated his surprise. “They just wanted to hurt me and to use me to trap you.” He lifted his eyes to Athos’ and the older man could see the anguish there. “I was so afraid.”

 

Athos placed a hand on the boy’s thigh and squeezed. “We all have times when we are afraid, d’Artagnan. There is no shame in it.”

 

“No,” the young man shook his head, “I was afraid that it would work and that you would die with me.” His voice hitched at these last words and moisture pooled in his eyes.

 

Athos moved to sit next to the boy and pulled him into his embrace, realizing after a few moments that the young man’s body was racked with sobs. As he held the young man, Athos squeezed his own eyes shut, remembering well the feelings of fraternity he’d found with the Musketeers and the moment when he realized that he would willingly give his life for any of them. Then had come his friendship with Aramis and Porthos, two unlikely friends who loved fiercely, forgave freely and made him want to be a better man, just to avoid ever putting a look of disappointment on either of their faces. Whenever one of their brothers was taken from them, the entire garrison grieved mightily, but if he ever lost his three closest brothers, he knew he would never recover.

 

The young man’s sobbing slowly quieted, but he seemed in no rush to move away from the solid comfort of his mentor’s chest and, truthfully, Athos was just as happy to allow the young man to remain in his embrace. When he felt d’Artagnan begin to move away, he supported him in rising to a sitting position, knowing that the young man’s back and side still caused him discomfort. Athos took d’Artagnan’s face in both hands, lifting it up from where the young man had been staring at his lap, and wordlessly used his thumbs to wipe away the remaining tears on his face.

 

“Why are you doing this?” d’Artagnan whispered.

 

“It is a small kindness for a man I love like a brother,” Athos assured him.

 

The words may have surprised the younger man, but he nodded in acceptance, the expression on his face making it clear that he not only understood the sentiment but shared it as well.

 

“You don’t have to stay, you know.” d’Artagnan told him.

 

“I know,” Athos stated, making no move to leave. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

 

The Gascon nodded and laid back in bed. Before closing his eyes, he reached for Athos’ hand looking for the older man’s reaction, but Athos’ merely grasped it back and gave a firm squeeze. “Sleep, I’ll be here,” he declared. And with those words ringing in his ears, the Gascon drifted off.


	14. Chapter 14

Porthos and Aramis returned the following morning, looking much refreshed by their evening pursuits. “We brought breakfast,” Porthos indicated the basket of freshly baked baguettes he held in one hand.

 

Athos was already awake, not having returned to sleep after d’Artagnan suffered another early-morning nightmare, and had sat watching the Gascon sleep instead as the dark shadows of night had slowly lightened to streaks of red and yellow as the sun rose.

 

“How is he?” Aramis pointed at the still sleeping man as he walked over and then placed a hand on the boy’s forehead.

 

Athos lips quirked into a small smile at the action as he answered. “Other than the occasional nightmare, his sleep was undisturbed.”

 

“Mmm, I suppose that’s to be expected,” Aramis murmured as he moved his hand away.

 

“He was afraid,” Athos started, uncertain how much he should share from his late-night conversation.

 

“But not for himself, I’d imagine,” Porthos perceptively offered. At Athos’ sharp glance, he continued. “Boy’s always running headfirst into some kind of trouble but never gives a thought to himself. If he was afraid, then I’d guess he was afraid for us – that we’d walk into that trap and get hurt trying to save him.”

 

It was clear by the look on Athos’ face that Porthos was correct and Aramis moved to stand next to his swarthy friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Porthos, your insightfulness never ceases to amaze me, my friend.” The large man grinned at the compliment from his friend and sought to divert the attention from himself.

 

“So, what’s the plan for today?” Porthos asked.

 

“I thought we were ordered to live the life of leisure for the next week, although I’m not sure how relaxing our time will be once d’Artagnan starts feeling better,” Aramis pointed out.

 

“You’re correct, on both counts, however I think the first order of business is for our young friend here to open his eyes and stop listening to our conversation while pretending to sleep,” Athos stated.

 

At that, d’Artagnan opened his eyes and looked around sheepishly. “Sorry.” Aramis raised an eyebrow at him inquiringly. “You didn’t really expect me to be able to sleep through all this talk though, did you?”

 

Porthos grinned at the boy’s comment in amusement, noting that even Athos was having a difficult time keeping a straight face.

 

“Now that you’re awake, I think we should all enjoy some breakfast, “he looked pointedly at the Gascon, “and then Aramis will check your injuries and I will tell you what I know of the Captain’s plans.”

 

After they had eaten, Athos left to wash and change into a clean shirt, and Porthos went to collect some clean water for d’Artagnan to be able to do the same. While they were alone, Aramis helped the Gascon use the chamber pot and was pleased to see the contents showing only a slight pink tinge. Although the young man was mortified that Aramis would think to check, he was touched by the caring that the act represented and was pleased that his kidneys were healing.

 

“How does your side feel?” Aramis asked as he examined his stiches and pushed gently on the boy’s ribs. “And, be honest,” the older man admonished with a stern look.

 

d’Artagnan sighed, but decided he owed Aramis the truth. “The stiches are fine, I just have to be careful how I move so I don’t pull on them. My ribs,” the young man shrugged, “you know how it is. It pretty much hurts to do anything other than lay here, which is _not_ an option.”

 

Aramis nodded, understanding the frustration that set in when one felt well enough to be bored of lying in bed, but was not really well enough to do anything else. “Unfortunately, you will need to stay in bed for at least a few more days,” Aramis held a hand up, stopping d’Artagnan’s words of protest. “unless we bind your ribs and you always make sure that one of us is here to help you. Agreed?”

 

d’Artagnan smiled ruefully, realizing how well his friends knew him. “Agreed,” he accepted.

 

“Excellent,” Aramis clapped his hands. Porthos entered the room at that moment, bringing with him a bucket of fresh water and some towels. “Porthos, would you please help our young friend with his morning ablutions while I gather some bandages to wrap his ribs?”

 

Seeing that the Gascon was opening his mouth in protest, Porthos interrupted before he could speak. “O’ course, I know how much he appreciates the help of his friends.” Knowing his was defeated, d’Artagnan plastered a smile on his face and nodded.

 

As Aramis left, Porthos sat down next to the boy, squeezing his neck. “It ain’t nothing we haven’t done for each other before and nothing we won’t do for each other again.” Seeing the look of acceptance on d’Artagnan’s face, Porthos nodded. “Now, do you need help moving yourself to sit on the side of the bed?”

 

“No, I can do it,” the young man replied.

 

Nodding, Porthos stepped back, understanding the need for independence, and allowed the boy to manoeuver himself slowly until his legs hung off the bed, and he sat bracing himself with his arms. Wordlessly, Porthos soaked a cloth in the water and washed the young man’s face and neck, moving downward to rub circles across they boy’s chest and back, finishing with his arms. d’Artagnan sat quietly as he allowed his friend to bathe him, eyes closed as he focused on the deft movements of the cloth across his skin. When he was finished, Porthos used the dry towel to remove the remaining moisture from the other man’s skin and sat back, content, at seeing how much the attention had relaxed his young friend.

 

Keeping his voice low, Porthos asked, “Do you want your boots or would you prefer to rest for a bit?”

 

The answer was predictable, but Porthos had to ask. “No, I want my boots – I want to go outside for a while.”

 

Porthos nodded and collected the boy’s boots, sliding them onto first one foot and then the other. Aramis returned as he finished and nodded to Porthos at seeing how calm d’Artagnan appeared. Holding up the gauze he’d brought in one hand, Aramis asked, “Do you want me to bind your ribs now?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

Porthos moved away to dispose of the water bucket and towels, allowing Aramis access to bind the young man’s ribs firmly to prevent their movement. Placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, Aramis reminded him, “The bindings will cause you to take smaller breaths which are dangerous for your lungs. You must resist the urge to do so, and we will unbind them when you return to bed.”

 

d’Artagnan knew this and while it felt better to have his broken ribs supported, he had no desire to get sick as a result. Porthos pulled a clean shirt from d’Artagnan’s trunk and handed it to him, but again allowed the boy to pull it on by himself. When he was dressed, the men helped their younger brother to stand and then walked slowly behind him as they exited the room and made their way down to the courtyard. d’Artagnan knew he should be thankful that he was getting better, but he was frustrated at how tired he felt after dropping gratefully to sit on the bench at the table.

 

Noting the boy’s pallor at the trip, Aramis cautioned, “No more than an hour, then you’ll return to your room to rest until lunch.”

 

At the Gascon’s grimace, Porthos chuckled softly. “Don’t take it personally lad, you know Aramis can’t help his motherin’ instincts when one of us is sick or hurt.”

 

“It’s true,” a voice behind d’Artagnan echoed, “I have always believed that Aramis would make a fine mother,” Athos deadpanned.

 

“You do realize, of course, that I wouldn’t need to _mother_ you if you had the good sense to remain healthy and uninjured, _and_ to rest properly so that you can recover from said unhealthiness and injuries when they occur,” Aramis rebutted.

 

The banter brought a smile to everyone’s faces, a much needed distraction after the stress of the past weeks. Turning serious as curiosity got the better of him, d’Artagnan asked, “So, what’s happening with Andre and the rest of the bandits?”

 

Athos joined the men at the table before explaining, “The Captain has sent men out to look for the wife’s family farm and is at the Palace now, speaking with the King and the Cardinal, trying to identify Marchand. It’s likely that one or the other is harbouring Andre and his band of thieves.”

 

“Surely we’re not planning to sit idle while everyone else does our work for us?” Porthos questioned.

 

“Actually, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Athos began, “ _until_ someone finds some useful information. Captain Treville said he didn’t want to see us for a week, but he never specified where or how we should spend that time.”

 

The other three men grinned at Athos’ interpretation of the Captain’s words, grateful that they would still have an opportunity to seek retribution on the men who had tried to kill them.

* * *

By the time that Treville had returned to the garrison, d’Artagnan had been satisfactorily fed to Porthos’ affectionately spoken words of “need to put some meat back on those scrawny bones”. As he’d promised Aramis, the young man had returned to his room to rest before lunch and stayed in bed after he’d eaten to rest again. Despite the fact that he disputed Aramis’ claims that he needed sleep to regain his strength, d’Artagnan had no difficulty drifting off either time. It was now approaching early evening and Porthos was keeping the Gascon entertained with a game of cards, while Aramis sat in one corner cleaning his pistol.

 

d’Artagnan glanced out his window, noting the setting sun, and huffed again, “Why isn’t Athos back yet?” Dropping his cards in frustration as Porthos displayed yet another winning hand, the Gascon leaned back against the pillows propping him up, looking at the ceiling as if he could find his answers there.

 

Aramis looked up from his cleaning, admonishing the young man, “Be calm, d’Artagnan. Athos will be back as soon as he’s able.”

 

“Perhaps I should get up then, in case he brings news,” the young man replied hopefully, making motions to get out of bed. Porthos’ hand on his chest stilled his movements and both men looked to Aramis for approval. At Aramis’ slightly inclined head, Porthos removed his hand and allowed the Gascon to throw back his blanket and place his feet on the floor.

 

“Really Porthos?” d’Artagnan looked at him unbelievably.

 

Porthos merely shrugged in reply. “He ever stitched you up when he was mad?” At d’Artagnan’s confused look, he continued. “Trust me, you never want to be on his bad side.” The large man gave a shudder as if to emphasize his words which only made the grin on Aramis’ face wider.

 

“He’s right, you know,” Aramis acknowledged as he sat next to the young man to re-bind his damaged ribs. d’Artagnan merely rolled his eyes as he pulled his shirt up to give the other man access. Their timing was nearly perfect and Athos joined them as Aramis was finishing, and the three all looked expectantly at their leader.

 

Something dangerous danced in Athos’ eyes as he took in the sight of his brothers, stating, “We have a lead.”

 

With those words it was clear he had everyone’s attention and for a moment he was tempted to make them wait, but one look at the stiff manner in which d’Artagnan held himself in deference to his injured ribs had him reconsidering. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he sat facing the others, ready to recount what he’d learned.

 

“We had no luck locating the wife’s family, despite the efforts of nearly a dozen men visiting farms an hour’s ride from Paris, in all directions.” He paused to take a sip of his wine. “The Captain spoke at length with both the King and the Cardinal in an effort to identify Marchand, but neither of them had ever heard of the man.”

 

“So you’re saying there’s nothing?” d’Artagnan exclaimed, wincing as his outburst tugged on his ribs.

 

“No, I’m saying that Marchand is a person of no importance, which is why the Captain approached the head of the royal household, where he discovered a man named Marchand working in the Bouche du roi, more specifically the paneterie.”

 

“The spy we’re looking for bakes the King’s bread?” Porthos sputtered.

 

“Apparently he’s one of their best bakers and often makes a sweet that his Majesty favors,” Athos conceded.

 

Porthos bark of laughter was matched by Aramis’ more sedate chuckle, while d’Artagnan looked at them all as if they’d gone crazy.

 

“Have you lost your minds? There’s nothing funny about this.” He made to stand and sat back heavily with a huff, as Porthos easily pushed him back down onto the bed. “We need to go. This man is a spy and he probably knows where Andre is.” None of the men seemed ready to move. “Why are we just sitting here?” he asked in frustration.

 

“Athos always has a plan,” Aramis reminded him.

 

“Aye, and he’s just waiting for you to calm down so he can share it with us,” Porthos added knowingly.

 

The young man looked over at his mentor. “Is that true? Do you have a plan?” Athos inclined his head slightly in agreement. d’Artagnan seemed mollified by his answer and prompted, “So what is it?”

 

“Marchand has been told to make something special for their Majesties for tomorrow’s dinner, which will require the man to be present when a special guest’s arrival is being discussed. The Captain has graciously allowed us to return to duty at the palace during the same time, so that we may observe his reaction.”

 

“You’re going to set a trap,” d’Artagnan stated.

 

“So, one of us follows him to see where he’s going next, and we catch the lot of ‘em when they attack our fictional guest,” Porthos said to himself, nodding. “Could work.”

 

“I’m glad you approve,” Athos thanked the man dryly.

 

“When is our special guest scheduled to arrive?” Aramis questioned.

 

“Two days’ time on the road from Fontainebleau.”

 

Porthos nodded approvingly, “Lots of cover along that road and some sections where the river’s on one side with steep forest on the other. Good place for an ambush.”

 

“So what do we do tonight?” d’Artagnan asked, seemingly at a loss.

 

“Tonight, we eat and drink and get a good night’s sleep - tomorrow the fun begins,” Aramis answered with a gleam in his eye.


	15. Chapter 15

He had lost the argument, but only when he’d been reminded that Marchand had been the one to recognize him initially, and showing up at the palace instead of being dead would likely ruin their plan. While he had originally argued that the other three had been at the barn also, the others pointed out that the man had given no more than a fleeting glance in their direction and that, with their hats down low, the man was unlikely to distinguish them from any other Musketeers. This decision left d’Artagnan at the garrison, alone and fretting anxiously, for several hours. He had started out reasonably well, having managed nearly an hour in his room before the boredom drove him down to the garrison courtyard. He sat down at the table and lasted nearly another hour, watching his fellow Musketeers spar and practice their swordplay, but then it had been suppertime and so his distraction had ended. He had half-heartedly tried to eat, especially when he noted a few of the men taking an interest in the contents of his plate – Aramis’ spies were everywhere it seemed! While he made a good effort to clean his plate, he eventually gave up when he realized the food he’d eaten seemed to be sitting in his stomach like a lead weight.

 

Finding himself alone again after the evening meal, d’Artagnan paced slowly for a time, travelling from one end of the courtyard to the other until one of the men on guard duty threw him a meaningful look – Aramis and his spies! He gravitated next to the stables where he finally escaped the too observant eyes of his brothers. Picking up a cloth, he sat himself down and mindlessly began cleaning some of the tack. The motions soothed his frayed nerves as he lost himself in the familiar act, allowing his mind to recall his time with the bandits. He’d been so certain of his ability to infiltrate the group and now he wondered if that had been his first error, mistaking cockiness for confidence. When the bandits were returning to the barn after he’d helped his brothers escape, he’d thought himself incredibly inventive when he decided to shed his own blood in order to cover up the bloodstain on the ground; again, the young man wondered if this wasn’t due to his inexperience rather than creativity. His potentially final and fatal mistake could have been his success at keeping his brothers from rescuing him from the clearing which, judging by the look on his brothers’ faces when they’d discussed it later, was not an option they were willing to accept. Once again, they saw a lack of self-preservation where d’Artagnan had thought his actions to be honorable and unselfish. His thoughts circled endlessly until the young man could make no sense of them, and he thumped his head against the wall at his back as he let out a frustrated groan.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a voice called his name. “d’Artagnan, where are ya, lad?” This time he recognized Porthos’ voice. Instinctively, he made to call back but then stopped, realizing that while he wanted to know how things had gone at the palace, he didn’t want to be found just yet. He let the items he’d been holding drop from his hands to land between his feet and rested his elbows on his knees as he sat on the floor of the stable. Holding his head in his hands he wondered if Treville had made a serious error in judgement sending him on this mission or, worse yet, if he’d been sent simply because the Captain had no other options. He groaned again as he pulled his hands through his hair, letting his head fall back against the wall once again.

 

He focused on the sounds outside and realized that he could no longer hear anyone calling his name, which likely meant that his brothers were looking for him either in the barracks or possibly thought he’d gone into town. Knowing that he could not cause them more concern after the past few weeks, he resigned himself to getting up which, as it turned out, was easier said than done. The evening hours had brought a cold chill that the young man hadn’t felt earlier, and rising from the ground with sore ribs had him closing his eyes in pain once he was standing. When he’d steadied himself, he made his way out of the stables, looking around the courtyard for any sign of his brothers, but the area was empty. Groaning, he berated himself for not answering Porthos’ call earlier, especially since he now had no idea where to find his friends. He decided to check the Captain’s office first, since it was logical to assume that Athos would report their progress upon returning, but when d’Artagnan reached the top of the stairs he could see that Treville’s office was dark. Next, he made his way to the barracks, checking first his room then the others’ rooms, finding them all empty. All of the walking he’d been doing was starting to catch up with him, and the Gascon braced his ribs with one hand, cursing Aramis’ diligence in ensuring they weren’t bound when he was in his room. The pain at this point was nearly enough to make him turn back and go to bed until he reminded himself that it was fault that he was now apart from his friends.

 

He dragged his leaden feet back down the stairs, grimacing as each step jarred his side, and decided he would check Athos’ apartments in town as well as a favorite tavern of theirs, at which point he’d return to his room and let them find him instead. As he exited the garrison gates he asked the men on duty whether they’d seen his friends, but the men could only confirm that they’d been and gone again, and they had no idea where the trio were heading. Nodding, the young man determinedly placed one foot in front of the other, running a hand along the buildings he passed to maintain his balance, belatedly realizing that he’d grown dizzy at some point and his vision was starting to blur. His next step had him walking into something soft but unyielding and he found himself being held up by two strong arms.

 

“Found ‘im,” Porthos stated smugly.

 

“Perhaps we need to try chaining him to his bed from now on,” Aramis suggested.

 

“Or at the very least, placing a cow bell around his neck for when he’s escaped,” Athos added.

 

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan squinted up at the man in front of him. “I found you,” he said with a tired grin.

 

“Hear that, _he_ found _us_ ,” Porthos snickered.

 

The young man felt a warm hand on his face, finally realizing how cold he felt, followed by a hand probing his injured side. “He feels like ice and he didn’t bind his ribs before wandering around. We need to get him back to bed and warmed up,” Aramis informed them.

 

Porthos deftly spun the young man around so he faced the right direction and then pulled an arm over his shoulder to support him for the walk back. Although d’Artagnan did his best to walk, by the time they’d reached the barracks it was evident that Porthos was the only reason he was still upright. Upon arriving in d’Artagnan’s room, Porthos sat the boy on his bed and started undressing him, while Athos stoked the fire and Aramis collected blankets and brewed a strong draught that would both ease the boy’s pain and help him sleep. Within a half hour, the room was somewhat more than comfortably warm, the Gascon had obediently drank the entire contents of the cup Aramis had given him, and d’Artagnan was tucked in, asleep.

 

The three man sat in chairs around the room, battling feelings of frustration and concern at the young man’s actions. Nearly as one, they said, “I’ll stay with him tonight.”

 

Athos held up a hand to forestall further conversation, “I will stay with him tonight. Aramis, you can come by in the morning to check on him and Porthos will bring lunch.” So agreed, the two men bid Athos a good night.

 

The older man brought his chair closer to the bed as he had the previous night and placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, taking comfort in the warmth that was seeping back into the boy’s skin and the slow, even rise of his chest. Satisfied, he left his hand where it was and closed his eyes, allowing sleep to claim him.

* * *

When d’Artagnan awoke the next morning, he was startled to find that he felt uncomfortably stiff, and it took him several moments to recall the events of the previous night. He next noticed Athos sitting on a chair beside his bed with one hand on his arm, and realized guiltily that the man had probably stayed because his friends didn’t trust him not to disappear again. Deciding the best way to apologize to them for the previous night was to be a model patient, d’Artagnan lay back on the pillows, intending to stay in bed until one of the others gave him permission to get up. That was when he realized how boring it was to lay quietly in bed, followed closely by his discovery that he really needed to use the chamber pot. He argued quietly with himself for several minutes that he could wait, but biology eventually got the better of him. d’Artagnan carefully raised his head and lifted Athos’ hand off his arm, replacing it on the bed; a quick glance at Athos confirmed that the man still slept. Next, he pulled his upper body up, taking great care to silence any sounds of discomfort that the action caused. Sitting upright for a moment, he contemplated how he would swing his legs over the side of the bed when he noticed that he was being observed by two sharp, blue eyes.

 

He hung his head at being discovered trying to leave his bed and attempted to explain before Athos could berate him. “I just need to use the chamber pot. I promise to return to bed immediately after.”

 

Athos maintained a neutral expression, although the young man thought he could see a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Of course, let me help you.”

 

“No, that’s not necessary,” d’Artagnan began, but changed his mind at seeing the look on Athos’ face that indicated his offer was not a suggestion but an order. “Thank you, I’d be glad for the help.”

 

Athos moved the boy’s blankets out of the way and helped him to move to the edge of the bed to drop his feet to the floor. Hoping that Athos would understand that he needed no help with this next part, he was grateful when the older man stepped away to examine something on the other side of the room, allowing him some privacy to tend to his needs. When he had finished, he returned to sit on the side of his bed as promised, waiting expectantly to be reprimanded for last night’s events. Instead, Athos returned to his seat next to the bed and pinned him with an inquisitive gaze.

 

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked softly.

 

The Gascon was surprised at the care that infused Athos’ words and managed to utter a barely heard, “I’m fine.”

 

“I would be unsurprised if you felt somewhat less than fine after last night’s exertions. You were nearly insensible and half-frozen when you literally stumbled into Porthos’ arms,” Athos countered. d’Artagnan’s face flushed red at the man’s words and he stared down at his lap, unable to meet the other man’s gaze.

 

“When we found you missing, it was… _disconcerting_ ,” Athos explained, “and not a feeling I enjoyed in the least.” The older man lifted d’Artagnan’s chin so he could meet his gaze. “I hope you will do us the kindness of not making us experience those feelings again.”

 

The young man nodded, completely at a loss for words. After expecting a sound scolding for his actions, this man, who he admired beyond measure, had treated him with undeserved compassion. “I promise to do my best,” he finally breathed out softly.

 

Athos placed a hand on the young man’s knee. “That’s all we ask.” They sat in silence for nearly a minute, d’Artagnan relishing the warmth of the other man’s hand on his knee, until Athos sat back in his chair and spoke. “Would you care to hear about last night’s endeavors?”

 

With the guilt of last night’s actions weighing heavily on the Gascon’s mind, he’d completely forgotten the reason he was alone in the first place. “Yes, of course I would,” he stammered.

 

"The Captain correctly identified the baker as our spy and we watched as Marchand listened attentively the conversation about our guest’s arrival. As we’d hoped, he made his excuses as soon as he was able and slipped away to a tavern near the docks. We were, of course, exceptionally stealthy and managed to remove our Musketeer garb so we could track him successfully, and watched him meet with Andre.”

 

“Did you catch him?” the Gascon asked eagerly.

 

“Remember, our plan was not to apprehend anyone last night, but to entice him into setting a trap for our guest’s carriage,” Athos reminded him.

 

d’Artagnan had forgotten and now realized that the trap was to be sprung today. “Does that mean you have to leave soon?”

 

“There is still time. The carriage is not expected until late in the afternoon, which,“ he paused at Aramis’ arrival, “allows Aramis time to look you over and make sure you’re none the worse for last night’s exploits.”

 

Aramis walked over to the two men slowly, trying to gauge their mood. At Athos’ glance, Aramis’ face broke into a smile and he greeted them enthusiastically. “Good morning gentleman, how did we sleep?”

 

At Aramis’ question, d’Artagnan realized he’d slept remarkably well. He’d originally thought this to be due to the fact that he’d overexerted himself, but now recalled the bitter drink that Aramis had forced on him once he was tucked into bed. “You drugged me,” he stated accusingly.

 

“Ah, it’s nothing but a kindness between friends,” Aramis brushed the comment off with a smile. “Besides, you cannot tell me that you didn’t benefit from its effects.”

 

“He did,” Athos interjected. “Slept the whole night through without waking.” Aramis and Athos shared a knowing look, understanding that the draught they’d forced on d’Artagnan had prevented the nightmares he’d been suffering from since their return to Paris and allowed him a proper rest. Athos rose from his seat and pulled on his hat. “Aramis, I have some things to attend to but will return later.” Without giving the Gascon an opportunity to question him, Athos turned and strode out of the room.

 

Aramis seated himself on the chair across from d’Artagnan as the young man searched for the right words to apologize to his friend. “Aramis, I feel I owe you an explanation for last night.”

 

“Nonsense, there was no harm done,” Aramis peered at him, “was there?”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan hastened to reassure him.

 

“Then consider it forgotten,” Aramis smiled.

 

“But, I didn’t stay in my room and then you couldn’t find me when you returned…”

 

Aramis placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder to stop him, a serious look in his eyes. “Are you aware of how difficult it was to find you gone?”

 

"What?" d'Artagnan asked, surprised at the question.

 

Aramis repeated it, slowly, enunciating every word. “Are you aware of how difficult it was for us to find you gone?”

 

“Well, I knew you might be worried, that’s why I went looking for you,” d’Artagnan countered.

 

“You may find this hard to believe, d’Artagnan, but over the short time we’ve known one another, we’ve grown quite fond of you and we’d be quite put out if anything were to happen to you,” a small smile quirked at Aramis’ lips. “Athos will never say anything, but he was distraught when he found you gone, and Porthos…I believe Porthos has learned what it means to feel responsible for a younger brother.”

 

“I see,” said d’Artagnan, slowly nodding. “And you…share these feelings?”

 

“Of course I do, lad,” Aramis cuffed him gently about the head. “Why else would I expend so much time and effort in getting you well after you’ve once again unerringly found trouble?” A genuine smile now lit up the man’s face and d’Artagnan found himself returning it.

 

“As I told Athos, I’ll do my best to not put you – any of you – into such a difficult position again,” d’Artagnan promised.

 

“Excellent,” and like that, the conversation was over and Aramis was busy examining his side. When he was satisfied, he leaned back, proclaiming that everything seemed to be healing well. “Now, I’m guessing that you’d enjoy an opportunity to get some fresh air, although you’re likely a bit afraid to ask today, hmm?” Aramis teased knowingly.

 

“Yes,” the Gascon ducked his head, “I would enjoy some time outside. If that’s alright,” he hastened to add.

 

“Certainly. Let me bind your ribs and then we’ll head down to wait for Porthos.” Aramis efficiently bound the young man’s ribs then helped him finish dressing and the two men headed to the courtyard where they found Porthos sparring with a potential recruit. As Porthos ended the match by deftly throwing the other man over his hip, d’Artagnan winced in sympathy for the young recruit, remembering vividly his own sparring matches with the larger man.

 

Aramis noticed and asked, concerned, “Are you alright?”

 

“Mmm, oh, yes, I was just recalling some of my previous encounters with Porthos that ended in a similar fashion for me,” he motioned to where the recruit was slowly getting up, accepting a hand from a grinning Porthos. While the large man would never take it easy during sparring, knowing that practice and preparation were key for soldiers who wanted to survive more than their first skirmish, the lessons were always doled out with kindness and respect, and there were never any hard feelings between sparring partners.

 

Having sent the young recruit on his way, Porthos joined them at the table, giving d’Artagnan a good once over, his grin returning when he was pleased with what he saw. “Survived in one piece, did ya?” he asked.

 

“Yes, no ill effects from last night, thank goodness,” the Gascon responded.

 

“Oh, I wasn’t referring to last night. I wasn’t sure what condition you’d be in after Athos and Aramis got through with you today.”

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes, but answered good-naturedly, “We’ve talked and I believe we’ve reached an understanding.” Both he and Porthos looked at Aramis, who confirmed with a slight nod of his head.

 

“Good, so ready for some lunch? We’ve a busy day ahead of us.”

 

“Lunch, already? I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” d’Artagnan protested.

 

“That’s what happens when laze about all mornin’,” Porthos teased, knowing full well that the lateness of the young man’s sleep was due to Aramis’ draught.

 

“Wait,” the rest of Porthos’ words finally sank in for the young man, “what do you mean we’ve a busy day ahead of us?”

 

“Hasn’t he been told?” the large man looked inquiringly at Aramis who shook his head. “Think we should spoil the surprise?”

 

The Gascon looked between the two men, recognizing that they were having some fun at his expense but still not patient enough to wait for an explanation. “I thought you were springing the trap for Andre today?”

 

“Yes, _we_ are,” Aramis confirmed.

 

“We?” d’Artagnan clarified hopefully.

 

“We,” Porthos stated with another infectious grin.

 

But, how, d’Artagnan thought to himself would his brothers allow him to participate in the ambush, especially after last night. And what about the Captain – surely he’d protest his involvement while he was still recovering from his injuries.

 

As if the two men could read his thoughts, Aramis informed him, “It was Athos’ suggestion that you might need to be involved in this afternoon’s events. Something about needing to face your attacker so that you might be able to put these events behind you.”

 

Porthos placed a supportive hand on the boy’s shoulder as he digested Aramis’ words. “We know how important it is to be able to finish what you’ve started.”

 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan murmured, again humbled by his brothers’ insight and compassion.

 

“Don’t thank us yet – there are some conditions you need to agree to,” Porthos cautioned.

 

“Anything,” the young man replied quickly.

 

“You’ll be in the carriage with one of us the entire time, and if any of the bandits get through our outer line of defenses, you’ll allow one of us to defend you and not re-injure yourself,” Aramis explained.

 

“And, you will not under any circumstances run off and try to engage Andre. You’re not in any condition to fight a man who’s at full strength, no matter how good your training,” Porthos added.

 

“But what if one of you is in danger? Surely you don’t expect me to sit on my hands and do nothing,” the young man argued.

 

“You must trust in your fellow Musketeers to protect each other, d’Artagnan, and remember, none of us would wish you to trade your life for ours,” Athos stated as he approached.

 

Recognizing the look in Athos’ eyes that would allow no further discussion, the young man relented, falling quiet, but promising himself that if his friends were in trouble, he would not sit idly by. Feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety at the afternoon’s events, d’Artagnan was now eager to move to action. “I should go get ready. When do we need to leave?”

 

The men shared a look of fond exasperation, as Porthos reminded him, “Lunch first, travel later lad. We’ve still plenty of time before we need to leave.”

 

Grudgingly accepting that he wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere until he’d eaten, the young man nodded.

 

“Good,” Aramis clapped him lightly on the back. “Porthos, let’s you and I go find some food so we can fatten up our young Gascon.”

 

Athos took a seat across from d’Artagnan, staying silent, knowing that the boy had questions and he needed a few moments before he was ready to voice them. Finally, the young man looked up from staring at the table and asked, “Why are you allowing me to go with you?”

 

The older man considered his response, wondering which answer he should give. Was it that he understood what it was like to be haunted by one’s demons; was it the fact that unfinished business could cause a soldier to doubt one’s skill and ability, usually ending in an untimely death; or was it simply that he wasn’t ready yet to allow the young man out of his sight and, although their plan placed the man in danger, he would still feel better knowing that he was nearby instead of being left behind at the garrison? He looked at the Gascon, seeing the doubt in his eyes at Athos’ delayed response, worrying that he’d said something wrong or offended the older man with his question. Deciding on the simplest answer, he said, “From past experience, I know how difficult it would have been to keep you here while we confronted Andre and his men. This way, we won’t need to task any of our brothers here at the garrison with the seemingly impossible task of keeping you here.”

 

If d’Artagnan doubted the other man’s answer, he didn’t show any mark of it on his face; instead, he grinned at the other man as he replied cheekily, “Glad you’ve finally figured that out.”

 

“Indeed,” Athos agreed, dryly.

 

Porthos and Aramis returned with their lunch and the men enjoyed each other’s company as they ate, the three men taking turns at ensuring that d’Artagnan ate enough to regain the strength he’d lost as a result of his injuries and captivity. When they were satisfied, Porthos returned with him to the young man’s rooms so they could collect his weapons and doublet, being reminded again by the larger man, “Those are to be used only for your protection and only as a last resort. You let us handle things today.”

 

By the time they had finished in the Gascon’s room, a splendid carriage had arrived just outside the garrison gates and the rest of the men who were accompanying them were in the courtyard with weapons ready and horses saddled. d’Artagnan felt a flush of pride as he looked at his fellow Musketeers, resplendent in their blue cloaks and pauldrons, and carrying weapons that had been cleaned and polished until they shone in the sunlight. He was ushered by Porthos into the waiting carriage, and was surprised to find both Aramis and Porthos following him inside.

 

“You’re both travelling in here with me?” he asked, already concerned that his mentor would be outside, exposed, and with no one to watch his back.

 

Aramis pointed to the extra harquebuses that were already placed inside and explained, “Easier for me to shoot from here and Porthos can reload for me.”

 

d’Artagnan was about to point out that he could reload the harquebuses but sensed that he would lose the argument regardless, so decided to simply nod and say nothing. Athos rode up beside the carriage on his horse, confirming that they were ready. Motioning to half of the waiting men, a group preceded them, followed by the carriage and finally the last of the men. The Gascon felt a shiver of anticipation as they made their way out of Paris in a route that would have them partly circle the outskirts of the city, placing them on the road leading from Fontainebleau as if that had been their departure point all along.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's been reading, reviewing and following this story. Thanks also to the guests who've commented and who I can't respond to directly - every review is precious and greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy this second-to-last chapter; epilogue will be up tomorrow.

* * *

They had been travelling for nearly three hours, the last hour of which had been spent on the road between Fontainebleau and Paris, and d’Artagnan found himself repeatedly nodding off, only to startle awake minutes later, his two companions grinning at him. They had both assured him that it was alright for him to sleep, but he worried that if he did, somehow Andre and his men would gain an advantage over them when they attacked. d’Artagnan knew that made little sense, but he was troubled enough that he would not allow himself to rest.

 

When the attack came, it came without warning, two of their men falling off their mounts from pistol fire before the first sound of alarm could be announced. Once the Musketeers realized they were under attack, they rallied, turning to face their attackers, determined to avenge all of their brothers who had fallen to these men. d’Artagnan attempted to rise and look out of the carriage windows only to be pushed back into his seat by a clearly protective Porthos. Aramis had risen smoothly as soon as they’d come to a stop and had already loosed a shot at one of the bandits, felling him from his horse and sending the frightened beast to run off riderless. As soon as he’d spent the weapon’s ball, he was turning to pick up another loaded harquebus, lining up another unfortunate target. Porthos for his part was doing double duty, skillfully reloading while keeping a careful watch on their attackers, making sure that no one got too close to their position. Aramis loosed his fourth successful shot and d’Artagnan had finally managed to peer carefully from one of the windows, spotting Andre urging his men on into battle. It was clear that the man had already realized that he had been tricked, but seemed steadfast in his desire to defeat the Musketeers who had spoiled his plans.

 

It only took a heartbeat for Andre’s eyes to land on the Gascon and in that second d’Artagnan could see the man’s fury rise as he determined to cut through the swath of protective men in his path and reach the carriage. As if sensing their leader’s desire, the bandits moved ever closer to the carriage, which was still protected by a semi-circle of indomitable men with Athos at their forefront. By now, the battle had moved to the ground as men, with their pistols spent, drew swords and plunged into the mêlée. A silent look of agreement passed between Porthos and Aramis as the latter man jumped from the carriage to join the fight, while Porthos closed the carriage door behind him. Andre moved resolutely through the Musketeers in his path, felling one with a blow to the head while another was stabbed viciously in the chest. Pulling his sword free, he was unaware of Athos’ approach from one side until the man engaged him with a slash of his sword. The strike caused little damage, bouncing off the tough leather of the bandit’s doublet, but it did momentarily put the man off balance, an advantage that Athos immediately pressed.

 

As the two men battled, the rest of the Musketeers slowly turned the tide, the precision and elegance of their sword work proving the effectiveness of the rigorous training they undertook. Porthos watched as one of the bandits made his way through the Musketeer’s line and he exited the carriage to engage the man, drawing his sword as soon as his feet touched the ground. The Gascon beamed with pride at the knowledge that his brothers would be victorious today, seeing only a handful of bandits still standing. His gaze was drawn to the fight between Andre and Athos and, as they moved out of his view, he decided that it would now be safe enough to step outside. His feet moved him unconsciously to follow the two men as they continued to move further away from the rest of the group and that was how he managed to catch the movement that Athos missed.

 

Several feet behind Athos, another bandit crept and the look on Andre’s face told the young man that the bandit was fully aware of his comrade’s presence. As the bandit drew closer, the Gascon saw the man pull his dagger, no doubt intending to embed it in his mentor’s back. With a roar, d’Artagnan drew his own blade and crossed the remaining distance that separated him from the three men. He lifted his blade as the man’s dagger came down, stopping the blade from plunging into Athos’ back. Athos’ concern at seeing his protégé running at him proved to be enough of a distraction for Andre to get past his guard, and he swept the handle of his empty pistol across the side of Athos’ head, causing him to drop like a stone.

 

d’Artagnan now found himself dealing with two men as he took a step back and considered his strategy. A quick glance behind him confirmed that no one had noticed his predicament, meaning that no one would be coming to his aid any time soon. Andre was undoubtedly the greater threat, but the other bandit could be a dangerous diversion in his fight against the more skilled leader. Having decided, the Gascon turned to the bandit, trying to keep Andre in his peripheral vision, and advanced quickly on the man who had only a dagger with which to protect himself. With two sharp thrusts the bandit had fallen, blood seeping from wounds to his leg and shoulder. Before he had completely pulled his blade from the bandit’s chest, Andre was upon him, using his dagger to slice a long gash across his upper arm. The Gascon hissed at the burn of the cut and backed away a couple of steps to give himself an opportunity to recover and prepare for the man’s next strike. Andre, it seemed, was content to have taken first blood and the look on his face promised that he would cause as much pain as possible before ending the contest between the two men.

 

“You’re a traitor,” he spat at the Gascon, swinging his sword again.

 

The young man took another step back, narrowly missing the bandit’s blade. “I may be a traitor to you but I’m loyal to the Musketeers and the King.”

 

“Musketeers,” Andre exclaimed scornfully, “They killed your father and yet you are their loyal lapdog.”

 

“The Musketeers are honorable men who helped me punish my father’s real killer. I can think of no greater privilege than to serve at their side.”

 

Andre lunged again, this time aiming a blow at d’Artagnan’s left side, which he blocked awkwardly with his dagger, the force of the blow jarring his injured ribs. It was clear that the bandit had noticed the Gascon’s wince of pain and he aimed another strike at the same location, d’Artagnan managing a clumsy block with his sword, before taking a couple of stumbling steps away. He looked back at the carriage again, where it seemed the last of the bandits was being rounded up, and hoped that his friends might notice his absence soon. He had entered the fight without thought, his focus solely on protecting Athos, but as his battle with Andre continued, d’Artagnan could feel the last of his strength leaving him, his sword dropping as he weakened.

 

The realization of his opponent’s weakness caused a look of wicked contentment to appear on Andre’s face as he advanced on the Gascon, forcing him to clumsily deflect strike after strike with a sword he could barely lift. As he deflected the other man’s sword, Andre would bring his dagger in to add cuts to the boy’s leg and side, neatly reopening the half-healed wound beneath his ribs. d’Artagnan stumbled again, hunched badly and barely gripping his sword, gasping harshly for breath. He knew that he would likely fall soon if he didn’t receive help, and he made to call for his friends as he staggered away from the other man’s approaching blade. This time it was Athos who saved him as the Gascon tripped over the prone man’s body, landing beside him and causing the blade to swish harmlessly above his head, but left him uncertain about his ability to regain his feet.

 

Andre walked towards the two men slowly, savouring the moment. “So, little Musketeer, it seems that I was right and you are too much of a runt, and now I get the satisfaction of gutting not one but both of you.”

 

“No!” d’Artagnan screamed in his head. Athos could not die because of his failings and he grunted as he painfully rolled to one side, pushing himself to stand shakily in front of his friend. His brothers had finally noticed his absence and the Gascon could hear Porthos calling to Aramis as he wavered on his feet. Andre aimed another strike at his left side, this time embedding the dagger into his shoulder before pulling out savagely. d’Artagnan no longer had the strength to defend himself, but he stayed protectively between the bandit and his friend. He watched through pain-filled eyes as Andre lifted his sword again, wondering if this would be his killing strike, and then looked on, confused, as the bandit fell boneless to the ground, a bright spurt of red blossoming from his throat. d’Artagnan followed seconds behind the other man, dropping to his knees next to Athos, his sword falling from limp fingers before he slumped to his side where he lay, panting. There was a loud rushing in his ears and as his eyes drifted to the blue sky above him, the clouds seemed to swirl and dance dizzily, making him nauseous at the sight. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Athos’ arm which lay against his back, and found himself fervently hoping his friend was alright, but lacking the ability to check. He thought he heard sounds beyond the beating of his heart, but was too weary to open his eyes to see where they were coming from, and in the blackness there was no pain. Giving in to his body’s demands, he allowed himself to be pulled into darkness.

* * *

Their victory had been hard won but as the last man was disarmed, Porthos threw an enthusiastic grin in Aramis’ direction, his blood still singing through his veins from the heat of the battle. At Aramis’ return grin, he strode over to the carriage, intending to let d’Artagnan join them now that the danger had ended, but was shocked to find it empty. Turning to look around, he finally spotted two men engaged in a swordfight near the woods, and one of them was unmistakably their young friend. Calling to Aramis, he pointed in the men’s direction, already moving toward them without waiting for the other man’s acknowledging nod. The two men watched as d’Artagnan stumbled and fell over another body on the ground and lay there, unmoving for several seconds, before somehow regaining his feet to sway drunkenly in front of the bandit’s blade.

 

Porthos watched in horror as the man swung the sword at d’Artagnan, stopping in shock as first one man then the other fell to the ground. He looked back at where Aramis stood, lowering the harquebus that he’d used to place a killing shot in the bandit’s neck. Aramis dropped his weapon and the two men surged forward, struck by the fact that both of their dearest friends lay on the ground unmoving. For an instant Aramis stood frozen in place, his heart torn about which man to help first, when Porthos moved to kneel next to Athos, making the decision for him. Aramis slid to the ground beside d’Artagnan, looking first for the comforting movement of his chest, indicating that the young man was still alive. Patting his cheek, at first gently and then with greater urgency, he called the young man’s name in an effort to wake him but to no avail. Beside Athos, Porthos had also confirmed that their friend still lived and was examining a swollen and bleeding gash on his right temple. Despite his efforts, he received no more than a soft groan as the man remained unconscious.

 

The two men had garnered the attention of some of the other Musketeers and Pinchon and Sebastian soon appeared at their side.

 

“How bad?” Pinchon asked, looking at the amount of red covering their youngest member and the stillness of their lieutenant.

 

Aramis looked up from where he kneeled. “Bad. The others?” He was torn between his loyalty for his two brothers in front of him and the others who might also need his services, and he prayed that Pinchon’s answer would not force him to leave his brothers’ sides.

 

“Nothing serious and nothing that can’t wait until we return to the garrison.” Pinchon nodded to d’Artagnan and Athos, “We’ll bring the carriage and help you put them inside.”

 

Sebastian nodded his agreement, adding, “I’ll drive so Porthos can help you with them.”

 

Aramis nodded gratefully, unable to speak for the strong emotions that gripped him. He returned his gaze to d’Artagnan, hands ghosting across his body to examine the various cuts that Andre had inflicted while asking Porthos, “Athos?”

 

“He’s taken a hit to the head. It’s left quite a sizable knot and it’s bleeding a bit.” He paused, “I haven’t managed to wake him.”

 

Aramis looked up at that, both men understanding that blows to the head could be tricky and the longer it took for one to wake, the greater the danger that they might never recover. “Do what you can to make him comfortable and we’ll get him settled inside as soon as they’ve brought the carriage.”

 

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos inquired.

 

“My biggest concern is to clean and bind these cuts,” he pointed at the various patches of red darkening the Gascon’s clothing. “I won’t be able to stitch them until we’re back in Paris and then we’ll need to watch carefully for any signs of infection.”

 

The carriage arrived next to the four men and Pinchon and Sebastian brought two others with them to help settle d’Artagnan and Athos inside. Aramis gratefully took his saddlebags from Pinchon, who had the forethought to retrieve the man’s medical supplies for him, and with a last grateful look to their fellow Musketeers, he and Porthos climbed inside and Sebastian moved them swiftly onto the road back to Paris.


	17. Epilogue

Upon arriving at the garrison gates they were greeted by the Captain and a handful of others who moved swiftly to carry the injured men to the infirmary. It seemed Pinchon had sent another man ahead to inform the Captain not only of their victory but also the injuries that had been sustained. As a result, two beds with clean sheets were waiting, along with stacks of fresh bandages, water, and a needle and thread. As Treville followed the men inside, he placed two bottles of brandy on the table next to the supplies, offering a small smile as he indicated to them, “For medicinal purposes.”

 

Aramis looked at his Captain with appreciation, recognizing the expensive brandy as one that Treville favored. He opened a bottle, holding it up as if to ask, “Are you sure?” to which he received a short nod. Aramis gave the Captain a toast as he tipped the bottle back, taking a healthy swallow before replacing it on the table.

 

“Is there anything else you need?” the Captain questioned.

 

Casting a critical eye over the items that were laid out for him, he shook his head and pulled a sharp knife from his belt, slicing d’Artagnan’s pant leg to reveal the cut that split the skin of his upper thigh. The Gascon’s shirt received the same treatment as Porthos moved to stand beside him, bringing chairs for both of them, which were placed on either side of the young man’s bed. Aramis nodded his thanks and pointed to the wound on the boy’s upper arm. “I’ll start here; can you clean the other two?”

 

Porthos dipped a cloth into the waiting bowl of water and proceeded to thoroughly clean the cuts to the boy’s side and thigh. “How ‘bout his ribs?” he asked as he worked.

 

“Still broken, but luckily no worse,” Aramis sighed. He reached for the bottle of brandy, preparing to pour it over the freshly cleaned wounds. Porthos automatically moved into position at the boy’s head, placing a hand on either shoulder to hold him down if he awoke. The contact of the fiery liquid with d’Artagnan’s arm caused him to whimper and toss his head weakly, but he remained thankfully unconscious. Aramis moved next to the cut on the boy’s side, which pulled a gasp from the man as his eyes snapped open, immediately looking for the source of the pain. Porthos’ reaction was immediate as he moved forward into the young man’s line of sight, whispering words of comfort and at the same time pushing harder on the boy’s shoulders to keep him still. Aramis moved to the head of the bed and placed a hand on the Gascon’s cheek, trying to get his attention. He turned into the touch and Aramis found himself looking into a pair of pain-dulled brown eyes.

 

‘d’Artagnan, can you hear me?” Aramis asked.

 

d’Artagnan swallowed with difficulty before nodding.

 

Aramis smiled at having received a response. “You’re in the infirmary.” His words caused the boy’s eyes to look around, confirming the familiarity of his surroundings. “I need to clean the cut on your leg and then I need to stitch up your arm, side and thigh.” d’Artagnan responded with another nod.

 

As he moved away, the Gascon looked up at Porthos who still held his shoulders. His look to Porthos was filled with anguish as he breathed out a word, “Athos?”

 

Porthos frowned and Aramis stilled as he waited for the larger man to reply, understanding that the young man’s last memory of his mentor was of him lying deathly still on the ground. Porthos eased his grip on one shoulder so the young man could feel the reassuring squeeze he gave instead. “He’ll be fine. Took a blow to the head but you kept him from that bastard, Andre.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded weakly and watched as Porthos released his shoulders and took the bottle of brandy from Aramis. Raising the Gascon’s head, Porthos tipped the bottle to the boy’s lips allowing him to take several large swallows to help with the pain that was to come. When he removed the bottle, the young man closed his eyes and Porthos moved to hold his leg steady so that Aramis could pour a healthy amount of brandy on his thigh. d’Artagnan flinched but remained silent, allowing his brothers to do what needed to be done. He managed to stay awake until half-way through his second set of stitches at which point the pain overcame him and he fell unconscious again. As they watched him go limp, Porthos shook his head fondly, “Bout time, stubborn bugger.”

 

When Aramis had finished, d’Artagnan sported bandages on his arm, side and leg and was propped up on several pillows to help his breathing. Porthos looked across the Gascon at Aramis, motioning to their friend in the other bed. “What do we do with Athos?”

 

“Time heals all wounds and we must pray that is the case with Athos,” Aramis said. He’d already confirmed that the blow to the head had caused nothing worse than the sizable lump at Athos’ temple and a concussion, as was evidenced by the unequal size of his pupils. They both knew that there was nothing more to be done except to wait until the man decided to wake up, but that didn’t mean that they had to like it.

 

Porthos pointed to a third bed. “Why don’t you get some rest while I sit with them,” he suggested. Aramis hesitated as he considered the larger man’s offer, torn between keeping watch over his friends and his body’s need for sleep. “If anything changes, I’ll wake you…promise.”

 

Aramis clasped the other man’s arm in thanks and tumbled into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. Porthos placed his chair between his two friends’ beds, leaning back with his feet on the end of the Gascon’s bed as he settled in to wait for one of them to awaken. 

* * *

It turned out that Athos could no more do anything easily than his young protégé could, and his return to wakefulness was abrupt and painful, prompting a bout of nausea that had him turning his stomach inside out. Even once he’d emptied his belly, it persisted, causing painful heaving that only made his head hurt worse, creating a vicious cycle where the pain of one caused the pain of the other. By the time he’d managed to drift off again into an uneasy sleep it was early morning and both Porthos and Aramis were exhausted from their efforts in helping their friend as he struggled through the consequences of his injury.

 

Aramis had taken Porthos’ place at Athos’ side, since he’d at least managed a couple hours sleep before Athos had woken, and he worked diligently to ease his friend’s pain by wetting and rewetting a cool cloth to place on the man’s head. He looked over at the other bed where d’Artagnan slept and was pleased to see that the young man seemed to be resting peacefully. When he’d last checked, the wounds he’d stitched showed only the customary redness from his needlework but no signs of infection.

 

Aramis removed the cloth from Athos’ forehead again and was surprised to see two blue eyes watching him through heavy lids. He’d doused all but one candle earlier to ease his friend’s pain, and from the look on Athos’ face, his actions were appreciated. Replacing the freshly wetted cloth, he asked softly, “Can you manage some water?”

 

After a moment’s thought, he heard Athos’ whispered reply, “Please.”

 

Gently raising the man’s head just enough so that he wouldn’t choke, he poured a bit of water into his friend’s mouth. He could hear Athos softly exhale another word and replied, “You’re welcome.” Knowing that Athos would be concerned about the mission and his friends, Aramis decided to pre-empt any of his questions by providing the information he’d want to know. “Everyone is safe and the mission was a success; Andre will not be robbing any more carriages, or doing much of anything else, really. Also, Treville sent men after Marchand when we returned and he’s currently enjoying the fine hospitality of the Chatelet. Six of our men were injured including yourself and,” he hesitated, debating with himself for a moment before continuing, “and d’Artagnan. He’s fine and in the bed next to yours,” he stated hurriedly, placing a warm hand on the man’s chest in case he attempted to rise. “He saved you from another bandit and then again from Andre after you’d been knocked unconscious.”

 

Aramis watched as Athos fought to stay awake to hear more. “That’s enough for now. You need to rest and you’ll have plenty of time with the boy later, while you’re both recovering.” Athos’ eyelids made one last effort to stay open until Aramis whispered to him again, “Rest brother.”

* * *

In the days after, Athos and d’Artagnan did indeed have plenty of time together. Athos continued to suffer from frequent bouts of dizziness and sudden weakness, leaving him restricted first to bed and then the garrison for many weeks. d’Artagnan was surprised to find that he didn’t recover as quickly as he normally would and Aramis had explained that this was due to the persistent trauma his body had experienced over the last several months, during which time the young man had never fully healed from one injury before sustaining the next.

 

Porthos and Aramis had taken bets on how long it would take for the two men to kill each other, suffering from boredom or annoyance with one another, or both, but they were pleasantly surprised when neither of their predications came to fruition. It was true that the two men were bored during their convalescence, but they struck a balance with each other that was deeper than the friendship they’d previously enjoyed. d’Artagnan would tease, bully and cajole Athos into resting when his body demanded it and, incredibly, Athos allowed the young man to help during those times when his concussion literally brought him to his knees. Athos, for his part, was determined to show d’Artagnan his true worth to his three brothers and would gently scold him, as only a big brother could, when he was over-exerting himself.

 

And so it continued in this fashion as the two men practically lived at Athos’ apartments until they were well enough to go outside. Then they spent their days together, watching Aramis and Porthos spar, and sharing meals with them when they returned from the short missions that Treville was favoring them with while the other two recovered. Nearly four weeks later, Aramis finally declared both men fit and they presented themselves at the garrison courtyard, pauldrons gleaming and cloaks lifting in the breeze. None of them knew what adventures the day would hold, but they all knew they would face them together.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, offer kudos, and comment on this story. I had a wonderful time writing it and hope you enjoyed. Till next time...


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